Post by Engine of Chaos on Dec 10, 2016 23:58:04 GMT -5
Red Fusion – The Nightmare of Life
I lift a heavy pair of eyelids, realizing another day of my miserable existence is about to start. The springs of my worn out bed squeak as I whip my legs around, ready to start another day. To quell the urge, I jam a wad of dip-tobacco into my gums and tread through the messy room. Clothes and food containers lay discarded on the floor. I ignore them for yet another day.
I stumble into my living space. And look at the walls. Pictures of the men I've targeted over the last few years are pinned to the wall. A picture of Klaus vonKnorre holding the Cross Hemisphere title. Holden Orson holding that very same title. Alan Wallace with the UGWC World Title. Fear holding his diary. So many more over the years. The picture of each man stares back at me. I couldn't definitively beat any of them and moved on after they found a way to escape the curse of working with me. It sometimes makes me wonder why I even try. Above all these pictures, I've reserved spot on the wall for the UGWC World Title that has eluded me throughout my career. I always hoped to hang a framed card where I headlined Horizons right next to it. That's also escaped me.
I've shifted back and forth trying to catch the lightning that will define my career. 2016 ended without me catching that lightning again and I'm in a battle for the Cooperative Titles. I've held it twice before, once was earlier this year with Donovan Hastings. The man who beat me last year at Horizons. Meanwhile Roberts and Wallace headline the show once again and I'm down the card.
I wasn't able to materialize the fall of Holden Orson. My bid as The Crazed Anarchist merely cost him his manager for a time and I was able to keep him from winning the UGWC World Title. But it once again managed to stay away from my wall.
I find an old beer bottle, maybe from last night maybe not, and deposit a glob of dip spit in it while I think about 2016. Vain and Holden managed to cast me off. Now I may have the chance to have the Horizons moment I want if I manage to draw Holden in this Cooperative title match. I could also end up against Ichabod and Baal. I don't give a shit about them! And then I need to win to even have a shot at making my 2016 mean anything.
I spit out another mouthful of brown spit and look for my cell phone. I've found myself teamed up with another journeyman in Jason Ingalls. While he hasn't went out of his way to contact me, he has angrily posted his opinion on twitter.
I finally spit out the wad of tobacco as I get ready to prepare for a daily work out. I grab my Donald Trump tee-shirt, ready to try to catch someone's attention and build up some heat.
I try not to think about what will happen if this latest shtick fails.
I try to to consider that I've already peaked in the world of wrestling.
I try not to realize that I'll never live my dreams or see my goals come to fruition.
I try not to admit that I'm noting but filler.
Jace – The Thorn in Your Side
My eyes shoot open, ready to start another day! I get out of bed with a grin. I'm going to get to someone today.
Ryan Hanneman.
I strut into my living quarters, ready to unleash on whoever comes my way. Avoid the spotlight Jase! And I've shown that it's best not to cross me. Just ask Raenius. Raenius was a fucking legend! I toppled that bastard in the Nausea Pit. He's been inactive for years. That shouldn't attract too much attention. Right?
Now that I've started wrestling full-time, I've pushed my way into a title match at Horizons! Tag with Rydell, he'll keep the spotlight off of you.
I plan to walk out of Horizons as the Cooperative Champion. If nearly everyone on the roster has held it at least once, it's not too big a deal if I hold it once, right?
Engine of Chaos? A bunch of pussies! None of them were in DMW, right?
JK and MVJ? Pussies! Two more kings of staying out of the spotlight.
2017 starts with a new set of Cooperative Champions! Just don't think about Ryan and what that caused... don't make too much of impact...
MVJ – Uno Dos Tres!
Abro los ojos para comenzar un nuevo día. Sometimes I forget I'm a luchadore if I don't say shit in Spanish. I put on my mask, right away when I wake up. Did you know luchadores protect their identity? Well I did, because I'm a lucadore. Yo quiero taco bell.
I luchadore (verbed it!) my way into my living quarters. If you weren't aware, I've won both the Chaos and Cooperative titles this year. My first year. Also I was in the Total J-Cup and Pool of Blood match. I was in the running for a World Title shot at In Your Hands. I even captained my own Outlast team. Is this all new information to you?
Many have stated my debut year is overshadowed by Rogan Maclean and the Engine of Chaos. They currently hold both titles I won this year. They're the ones who hold the Total J Cup itself. I was eliminated by Rogan in Pool of Blood. Holden Orson got the title shot I was considered for. Rogan and Baal eliminated me at Outlast.
Some say that I’m committing career suicide by running into them once again. But if I'm anything, I'm consistent. People say I should avoid the Engine because I can't beat them? No me rendiré. Adopt some sort of edge on my bland, baby-face personality? No me rendiré. Stop getting my catchphrases from Google translate? No me rendiré.
JK – Like a Cyclone!
I open my eyes, begrudgingly starting another day. I try not to think about how my big comeback has turned into nothing but another disappointing run on the lower mid-card.
My career has been the epitome of mediocrity. Do you remember the Aussie Rebels? Midday Oil? No?
MVJ and JK!? No?
I've quietly tried to take my place with the UGWC legends. Donovan Hastings. Jet Somers. Moss Edwards. Travis Roberts. Fear. I've been around since GIW. As I wander into my living space, I look at the meager accolades I've accumulated in my time here. I'm already outclasses by so many who have came and gone since my beginning here.
My time has never made any sort of major impact on UGWC history. My most recent return was an attempt to make something of my legacy. I hitched my horse to Vidas and found myself getting ran over by the Engine of Chaos. A group just a couple of months old that's already made more impact than my multiple year career in UGWC.
Maybe if I can derail them, even for a little while, I'll gain another footnote in history.
One day I will be relevant.
Austin Alexander – It's Not My Fault
My eyes open and I look around, ready to talk with evil Austin. Hey buddy. I'm going to say some cool shit! I saunter in my living quarters, ready to evolve.
Avoiding an early argument with the voice in my head I find myself able to function. Not being that interesting, however, I struggle to find something to do. Um... beat people up?
Yeah. Beat people up. I'm a big guy, and like many, many, many.... many others, I'm known as the Demon. I haven't been successful yet, but that's not been my fault. I've had the odds stacked again me. Aren't you like 6'5”? Shut up Evil Austin. The odds are stacked against me.
But at Horizons, I will win the title every new guy chases when they start here. The Chaos Championship! The longest reigning Chaos champion of all time? Did we even know that? The rotating Engine of Chaos? We're taller than all of them! If I don't win, I have my excuse.
I don't need to be interesting or find something to motivate me. I'll just eventually win. I really think we should find something to make us stick out...
Chaos – The Sharpened Buzzsaw
I wake up immune to the hangover that most would feel. I crack and Chadweiser and try to stretch a very tired body. I've been a workhorse for years. I've never truly been appreciated for my impact on UGWC, but I garnered a lot of backstage respect.
I swig at a Chadweiser as I walk into my living space, happy that my lifestyle is able to mask obviously being an alcoholic. I think about the workouts and training I have scheduled for the day and consider a rest.
Then I remember the haze of my life. Strip clubs, alcohol, and DMW. A life of shallow pleasures. If I don't work, I fall into a pit of empty pleasures and acquaintances.
Is that why I work so hard? Is that why I don't chance the spotlight I've easily earned? Do I just want the grind? I just want to stay occupied?
I try to drown the thoughts with my alcohol. I better go train. This can't ever end.
If I stay active I'll avoid that shallow and empty life that awaits me.
Alex Stein – Das Arschgeige
I open my eyes, ready to dominate. Nothing infuriates me more than my current position in UGWC. 2016 made me a champion in UGWC but everyone can see that I'm capable of more than just holding the Choas Championship. I carried my team at Outlast and it took half of this Engine of Chaos to stop me.
I move into my living quarters, still baffled how I'm not the current and reigning UGWC World Champion. I've been convinced since 2013 that Mickey Dragon stalled a World Championship caliber start to my UGWC career, but I've ran into a handful of idiots who've kept me down in the Engine of Chaos. Luckily, at Horizons, I have the chance to make up for an average 2016 by entering 2017 as a number one contender.
They stopped me at Outlast and took my Chaos Title, but there's no way that the Engine will derail me once again.
Is there?
What the fuck is 'Das Arschgeige' anyway?
Jet Somers – Never Accept the End
I wake up, wondering what Jet Somers I will be today. I am... or at least was... what most people considered to be the Golden Boy of UGWC. A multiple time... everything. No sane man would not want a taste of my UGWC accolades.
So what happened?
I move into my lavishly adorned living quarters. It was not very long ago I was a main-stay in the UGWC World Title picture. 2016 has been cruel to me. My calculated plan at Outlast blew up in my face. I'd never once bought my way into a title match and simply embarrassed myself in the Outlast finals when I finally did.
It was just a couple years ago I won yet another World Title in that very match. This time I was Outlasted by Outsiders. When I guaranteed myself a spot in the final spot of the night I embarrassed myself and no one even seemed to care.
I've watches as Travis Roberts and Alan Wallace take over the legacy I thought I'd retire with; Being UGWC's greatest.
I'm still in the conversation, but for how much longer? Hastings? Roberts? Wallace? Are they all better than me?
I watched as Holden Orson and Ichabod of all people made my Outlast run look pathetic. A group like the Engine of Chaos makes PMN look like a cliché wrestling stable.
When it all started to fall apart I tried to reinvent myself and it just made me fall harder.
What do I have to do to be the Jet Somers of old? Can I even handle this fall from grace? Should I rely on my intensely honed wrestling skill?
No. It's time to hatch a diabolical plan.
I hope this one doesn't blow up in my face too. This can't be the twilight of my career.
Travis Peirce – It's like I'm Jet Somers. But worse.
I open my eyes, wishing it was 2011. 2011 – 2013 was a wonderful time to be me. I was part of what's arguably the best Cooperative Team in UGWC's history. I won the titles three times with Jet Somers. I won the World Heavyweight Title in 2011. I was the Chaos Champion twice, when it meant something. Now I'm struggling to find a foothold in a 'runner's up' match at Horizons.
I walk into my living space, wondering where I went awry. After stacking my resume with accolades, I engaged in one of the greatest feuds UGWC has even seen after Eden Morgan's betrayal. I vowed to show that it would take down a UGWC legend.
But since then...
Jet Somers and I both how spiraled into failures. Eden's won the World Title and engaged in some of those most enthralling feuds in UGWC. The fall of PMN was the fall of Travis Pierce. That hurts. But it's the Piercing Truth.
Holden Orson – At least it's not me.
Holden Orson screams as he wakes. His brow is covered in a cold sweat.
Is he a tobacco-spitting journeyman who's never found his place? Is he a footnote in UGWC history to haunted by Ryan Hanneman's ghost to put himself into a real spotlight? Is he the Spanish spouting generic luchadore that's failed to live up to the hype? Is he the under-performing UGWC veteran who's mediocre past still outshines his underachieving present? Is he the boring new guy who's edge is an evil voice in his head? Is he a well respected UGWC workhorse who is unable to slow down and face his shallow life? Is he Das Uberbeast, the man who should have been able to waltz to the top of UGWC's roster but has been able to live up to expectations? Is he a UGWC icon who's fallen so hard, so quickly, that he can't accept it? Is he the victim of Eden Morgan's rise to stardom?
No. He's none of those things. He lays his head back on his pillow. Even being the discarded personality of a repressed and self-loathing homosexual is world's better than being any of those options. Having so little influence on who he truly is... it could really be worse.
Post by Engine of Chaos on Dec 10, 2016 23:59:31 GMT -5
The hollow, reverberating clack of a pushbroom handle smacking a concrete floor jars you from your sudden slumber. You jump hard enough to reach the edge of the plastic flip-down seat on which you'd slipped into sleep, and your eyes fly open as you try to remember where the fuck you are and how you got here.
The sound of a throat clearing behind you draws your attention, and you snarl at the face of The Engine of Calamity, Ichabod, smirking down at you through wraparound sunglasses.
"Fuck you want, dickhead?" you demand.
"Do you know where you are, Darren?" he smiles indulgently.
"Fuckin' arena, ya knob," you assure him, "waitin' for Horizons, yea?"
Ichabod shakes his head and tsks at you, filling you with rage. You leap to your feet, turning to face him with fists clenched.
"Not like it matters, honestly, as you haven't been deemed worthy of even a Horizons dark match," Ichabod points out, "but your early bird flight from South Dandenong must have taken a lot out of you, because you wandered into the Allstate Arena for your pre-show nap."
"Right, what's your fuckin' point, mate?"
"Horizons finished up about two hours ago, at the United Center," Ichabod reminds him. "not only did you come to the wrong arena, but you slept through the entire fucking show."
You can suddenly feel your heart pounding against your ribcage as you realize how badly you fucked up.
"Shit, fuck, that fuck Ryan was 'spose to call me," you tear at your hair, "fuckin' shit, this was my chance!"
"Relax, choad," Ichabod slowly gets to his feet, "your absence was about as impactful as your appearance would have been. Get over it."
With that, 'The Indestructible' puts his hand on your chest and shoves, and you feel the world tilt as your calves collide with the chairback behind you.
"F-FUCK!" you scream, waking yourself up with your own voice. You jerk your head left and right, not sure why you're not lying at ringside with your neck broken. The other passengers on the airplane fix you with a mixture of bemused and annoyed looks.
As the flight attendant comes over to check on you, you realize you were only having a nightmare.
----------
You're surrounded by piles of paperwork. Manila folders stuffed an inch thick are stacked in piles on your desk, the floor around it, and on various tables all over your new office. As you pour through another file, one of your nameless appointed assistants pushes through the door with another armful of folders.
You look up in exasperation, a questioning look creasing your features.
"More luchadors, Mr. Secretary," he explains.
You gesture without looking at a growing mountain of paperwork behind your desk. It is by far the largest and most disheveled pile.
"Johnson's got a few Bulgarians," he grunts as he bends to unload. "Do you have a stack for them yet?"
"Over on that table," you point with your chin, trying not to lose your place in your reading. "Between the Irish and Australian stacks."
The assitant pops his neck as he eyes the dimunitive two-folder stack you indicated amongst the much higher ones on either side. He watches, eyes widening, as the Australian files begin to slide, seemingly without provocation, over the Bulgarian files.
"Catch it!" you order him, but it's too late. The stack topples into the Irish stack, and you watch helplessly as the Iranian and Canadian stacks get caught up in the momentum and collapse with them.
"God dammit!" you snarl.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Secretary," the assitant rushes over, trying to salvage the mess back into semi-orderly stacks.
"Nevermind, uh, Josh?" you bury your head in your hands, the impossibility of your new position finally overwhelming your nerves. "I had no idea there were so many foreign wrestlers in this country."
"Maybe I can take some of this off your shoulders?" a new voice makes you look back up.
"What the hell do you want?" you growl at the newcomer.
Ichabod, known harborer of illegals, stands in the doorway of the office.
"I've come to relieve some of your workload," he smiles helpfully. He's soon joined by a balding, middle aged white man who looks like a war veteran in a smart blue suit. "I want you to meet Leon Rodriguez."
Rodriguez steps into the room, and makes a quick assessment of the mess. He barks orders back toward the hallway, and suddenly men fill the room, scooping up armloads of files and taking them away.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" you scream, rising to your feet. "Who do you think you are?"
Rodriguez flashes an ID wallet, identifying himself as the director of the US Citizen and Immigration Service.
"This work that you're illegally conducting here falls under the jurisdiction of the Department of Homeland Security," he admonishes you. "We're seizing these records."
"I'm the Secretary of Professional Wrestling!" you remind him, "appointed by wrestling Hall of Famer and president-elect Donald Trump!"
"'President-Elect' you bumbling idiot," Ichabod repeats, "until January 20th, he's not even in office yet. Any appointments he's made so far are pending, and your cabinet doesn't even exist yet."
"Furthermore," Rodriguez chimes in, "all of the visiting wrestlers in your company are considered ambassadors of their respective nations. UGWC is a global internet entity, and those citizens are paid by agencies in their respective nationalities."
"Not to mention a good number of the ones you're going after have become full fledged United States citizens," Ichabod rolls his eyes, "did you really think Gabriel Baal could practice, let alone run an entire hospital, in this country without the proper paperwork? This is an interesting new fantasy you've cooked up for yourself, Dave, but maybe you should get real for once."
You're about to respond, but you suddenly realize all the files have been moved with a scary efficiency, and now the room is full of Homeland Security agents, all wearing clip on identification badges.
"Do it," Rodriguez orders the one standing nearest the desk. He advances on you, zip tie style restraints in hand. Realizing you're ridiculously outnumbered, you sigh with defeat and present your wrists for arrest.
"Poor Dave Rydell," Ichabod smirks, "struggling so hard to remain a credible threat, a relevant challenge, that you had to resort to a creating a purpose for yourself, which, at the least, won't become relevant for over a month, and at the worst, will be rendered so impossible as to be as pointless as your Crazed Anarchist reign of indifference. Nothing you have done or will ever do will be the least bit compelling or interesting. Give it up already."
The sudden pressure on your wrists awakens your senses, and you realize your cell phone charging cord has become entangled around your arms as you slept, and you push your face up out of the drool crusted on your pillow.
----------
It's finally happened. You've done the thing you've watched your peers do with regularity over the many years you've been studying this world. You cracked.
You can't help it. Weeks of running the scenario through your head, imagining her running her blood-soaked hands over your life's research, dog earing pages and splitting spines. This is so much worse than what Hastings did when he stole the volume you were working on years ago and added his peurile grafitti. Months of calculations, reflections, and observations were so much ash at the bottom of a trash drum. Hastings had defaced your work, Morgan defiled it.
If you weren't aware of the facility burning to the ground a couple weeks ago, you'd assume you were in a cell at Angelfields, now under the care of the upstart psychologist and his pseudo-Illuminati society. When you hear the bolt thrown and the door creak open on rusted hinges, the light surrounds you with the scribblings you've inked into the walls in dark green crayon. Ravings, some would call them, but you knew they were your new work. Emblazoned here were your summations of the staff that has been caring for you since Morgan's display caused you to be deemed a ward of the state. Words wrapped the walls in measured, carefully calculated rows, as high as you can possibly reach.
You hope they've come to move you to a new room, a new blank journal on which to record your monitorings. Or at least brought you a ladder.
Instead, Ichabod and Gabriel Baal enter the room.
"How is the patient, Doctor?" 'The Indestructible' queries as he examines you.
"I'd rather not deem any case hopeless, Ichabod," Baal shrugs. You notice in that motion that he's holding something in his right hand, some sort of cloth. "But I'm excited about the challenge you've brought me. Care to help me?"
"My pleasure," he nods.
You make to crawl away as they approach, but Ichabod quickly sidesteps around you on the floor, and scoops you up into a full nelson, holding tightly as the 'Engine of Cruelty' steps forward and reveals what he was holding.
It's a hood, with a leather strap for fastening a metal cage into place where your jaw will be. Fear takes over you, invoking the minimally discussed third classic response: freeze.
After the hood is in place, the cage affixed protectively, you feel them slide a straight jacket around your torso. Over this, your arms are tightly cinched against your chest and a six inch chain connects your ankles. A leather strap runs from a ring threaded through the chin of the hood down to a belt with multiple more rings, pulling your head down into a perpetual bow.
With dawning horror, you realize, you've become their pet project.
You lift your head despite the leather strap, and discover you'd nodded off at your desk. Chin against your chest, your mask had become disoriented, and that was the trapped sensation that had awoken you. Adjusting it back into place, you take a moment to consider the implications of your dream.
Eventually, you have to shake the cobwebs of the reverie. There is work to be done. Following a routine you had a thousand times, you reach into a Staples bag to remove one of your freshly purchased composition books. Clicking your pen, you open the cover to begin writing the same things about Morgan that you've already written before. One great thing about your work, Morgan probably only destroyed the same sentences that have been inked a thousand times about a hundred other more interesting competitors in a dozen other journals. You have a method, it works, and you refuse to change it.
----------
You're not sure what woke you up, but your heart is racing in that only being suddenly aroused from REM sleep can induce. You blink a few times, your eyes adjusting to the darkness, when you notice the shadow perched on the edge of your mattress.
"What did you do?" you demand, voice shaken. You realize you can't remember any of the day since you allowed the demon to take control of your body this morning, much less making it all the way back to bed to sleep.
"It's not what I did," the shadow answers back, "but what we're doing."
You blink again, confused, trying to bring the image before you into focus. As usual, you had expected your own voice to answer back. This wasn't your alter ego, but the voice sounded vaguely familiar.
All questions are answered when a zippo flicks to life, splashing pale yellow light onto the face of The Engine of Calamity. Instinctively, you struggle with the coverlet, fighting against his weight sitting on it to escape and get yourself into a defensive position.
"Relax," he orders, speaking around the cigarette he lit, "you're having a nightmare. I can't hurt you here. Not physically, anyway."
"I'm not afraid of you," you stubbornly declare.
"That's good, Austin," he smiles before inhaling, "that's very good. You don't have a reason to be, as long as you are willing to turn with the Machine."
"I don't have any intention of following you," you defy him even in your vulnerable state, " you claim evolution, I claim torture and destruction."
You pause, realizing the words came unbidden, as if you didn't even know you were going to speak them. You suddenly feel like a puppet.
"You sound like just about every billy bad ass fucking flash in the pan choad to stand at the bottom of the mountain and rail pointlessly at the summit," Ichabod laughs, "and you might just be the perfect example of the replaceable minor cogs we've been talking about."
"What the fuck do you know about anything?" you speak without thinking again, beginning to feel a sort of panic at not being able to control your voice before it acts.
"I know that you're at least the sixth or seventh person this year to be plagued by voices and alternate personalities," Ichabod points out, "and I know because there are two who march with me now. But they've learned to weaponize and make use of their troubled psyches. They've become interesting studies in mastering their own minds, distilling the chaos that exists up here to produce unparalleled results."
He slowly taps his temple with his smoking hand.
"Face it, any idiot can come out and spit venom and claim to be relevant, however, your relevancy is clear to the world… David fucking Rydell has more relevancy than the four of you." your eyes widen as the words tumble from your throat. You have absolutely lost control of your own barking voice. "At least Rydell has the drive and determination to get the job done at all costs; what have you four accomplished? To truly be feared..."
"Stop, Austin, stop," Ichabod pops the cigarette into his mouth and puts his hands up, "I'm not trying to attack you here. You've got some remarkable potential, but I can hardly sit here and take you seriously when you say that four former multiple time champions, holders of several of you people's totems, have accomplished nothing. Stop railing against the machine, and maybe try to see the possibilities inherent in following the trail it blazes. Stop squandering your burgeoning talent on tearing down a system you don't fully understand yet, and see if you might be buoyed into recognition by riding the storm surge. Turn and face the change, Austin. But don't defy it. You'll only lose."
"Why should I listen to a figment of my imagination?" your lip curls defiantly. "You're not real."
"I'm in your head, that's true," Ichabod stands up as if to leave, "but why should that mean that I'm not real?"
----------
You smile through your beard down at the green, black, and red sweater with white stylized reindeer and snowflakes in a repeating pattern across the front of it. Ashley had picked it out, and it made you feel good to see how she looked at you when you wore it.
You're both in the floor around a coffee table you'd salvaged from a Goodwill and refinished with a dark golden brown stain. You'd gifted it to her a week ago, and she'd playfully reprimanded you for beginning the season of giving before she'd had a chance to shop.
Now, warm cups of peppermint cocoa steaming on the table before you, and "The Christmas Shoes" playing on the widescreen at the other end of the room, you're applying labels to the gifts she's wrapped for your family.
You catch a glimpse at her, face screwed cutely up as she tries to decide which Cat Cartoon Ombre LED light she meant for which cousin, and you can't help yourself. Without thinking, you pull yourself across the floor to surprise her with a kiss.
As your weight shifts, your knee pops, and you cry out in pain, waking yourself up from the holiday reverie. Somehow, in your sleep, you rolled over awkwardly and set off a twinge in the injury. Now you lie there sweating into your mattress and gritting your teeth, willing and then begging the pain to subside so you can go back to sleep.
----------
Each week you continue to prove everyone wrong.
For years everyone from your family, to your brothers, to the various rosters you've outlived in your legacy, have told you it's too much, it's time to stop. They don't understand your need to continue fighting forever.
Everyone was sure you'd stop when Xandy passed on fifteen years back. You'd barely had time to schedule the wake and funeral between XPFW's Patriot Games and UCW's Armed and Dangerous shows. But you'd made it to all four events, despite what the naysayers said.
When you turned fifty seven, and Hayleigh shocked the family by debuting in RPW, you'd had such a hypocritical fight with her over not wanting her in the business that they were sure you'd hang up your boots. She'd accused you of being a chauvinist, especially since you'd allowed her little brother to patch in earlier that year. No matter how much Jet, Cyp, Jez, and Lucky had tried to reason with her, she wouldn't give in, and she wound up leaving for Japan that weekend, pursuing her career there and never returning home.
The crowds laughed. The announcers jeered. Talent decades younger hurt you week in and week out. But still you fought.
Sitting here in the empty, rotting shell that used to be Mixxxie's, sucking on a sour Chadweiser that you'd had to take out your browning dentures to drink, you realize no one's coming around this Christmas, just like they hadn't for the last ten in a row.
As a cold tear escapes down your left cheek, you realize that the Engine of Chaos had given you the most cursed present they possibly could fifty years ago. They allowed you to continue fighting, when they could have ended your career and saved your life.
The sound of a baby crying in the lonely derelict strip club is so discordant, it brings you to your senses. You wake up realizing that you'd fallen asleep with cradling Hayleigh against your chest, and now your right arm was asleep.
You start to call out to Xandy, but your voice cracks with emotion as you stare into your daughter's eyes and begin to weigh your priorities.
----------
Confusion is all you feel. You know you're awake, but, as much as you strain, all you can see is white. You don't typically have dreams. All you can recall upon waking, usually, is the blank screen of your mind, typically not tasked with imagining scenarios for your sleeping brain to process.
But you're never lucid in those fugues. Not self aware, you don't exactly feel the bed, the pillows, the blankets over you, as you do now. Your sleep is typically uneventful, unremarkable, and without a need to remember.
You know you're awake, but, like in your dreams, there's nothing to experience.
You will your arms to feel your face, and that's when you realize you'd fallen asleep in your mask again, and it had shifted around so that the eyeholes don't line up. You laugh as you reach up and remove it, becoming ****** once again.
Nameless, faceless, worthless.
-----------
You can't believe what you've just witnessed. Here you are, innocently playing the diligent father, trying to teach your daughter to drive for the first time. This should be a memorable family moment, to be eternally etched in your memory as, while stressful, one of the proudest moments of your life.
That was all shattered when you watched the 2031 Tesla Starship, hovering into the passing lane from behind you, suddenly slow when the driver saw the young beauty, your flesh and blood, piloting the Takuro Spirit nervously. She lit up and giggled as the teenaged boy tossed off a cool salute before speeding ahead to the traffic light.
"Stop the car," you order her, changing the mood in the car to something darker.
Without questioning, she pulls to the shoulder and mashes the killswitch, watching with worry as you tear off the seatbelt and leap from the passenger seat.
"Dad!" your other daughter calls from the backseat, but you can barely hear her in your rage. Reaching into the backseat, you remove a heavy duffel, then sprint the last thirty yards to the intersection and march right into traffic. Shocking the boy, you pound vigorously on the driver's side window.
Unable to wait as he slowly lowers the window, you thrust your right arm in as soon as there's clearance enough to reach his neck.
"How dare you defile my family with your meddling! You've irreparably tainted what should have been a picture perfect moment for my offspring, and you can never ever be forgiven. From this day forward we are mortal enemies, do you hear me? I declare jihad on you and yours, and I'll never rest until I've repaid this slight. How dare you!"
With that, you release his throat, dropping back a few feet to drop the duffel bag on the ground. From it you extract an RPG launcher, and aim it directly into the Starship's window. The boy frantically tries to close the window, but you launch and eight inch shell, which impacts the window and splatters yellow paint all over the car, the driver, and the road around it. Splatters radiate all around, tossing blotches against the surrounding cars.
Horrified, the boy floors it as the light turns to green, racing away to leave you heaving deeply as you watch his retreat.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Hastings," a voice yells from the sidewalk. You spin to see Ichabod, who had apparently watched the entire incident unfold.
You smile into your pillow, enjoying the dream of your children's future, and you as their white knight forever.
----------
Why is sunrise the coldest fucking time of the day?
Coming to in the back of a car doesn't help at all, especially when it's parked, turned off, and no one had the god damn courtesy to leave the heat on for you.
The windows are frosted over, indicating the vehicle has been sitting for some time, possibly several hours. You huddle into yourself, curling up into a tighter ball, trying to resist coming into consciousness.
You almost think you might be able to drift off, and give up on every really feeing warmth again, when a loud organic crack resounds outside the car. Sitting up against your will, you wipe your hand across the rear driver side window to remove the frost.
In the distance, across a field, a blurry yellow blaze surrounded by four figures awakens a longing within you. Suddenly, nothing matters to you but getting to that fire. You reach down and claw at the door handle, forcing yourself to emerge from the backseat as quickly as possible.
You wouldn't have thought it possible, but the familiarity of the field you stand it causes your skin to prickle as an even colder feeling rushes through you. You take in the panorama, letting your gaze come to rest on the burning shack around which stands the Engine of Chaos.
"Come stand in the warmth, Jase," Ichabod calls out to you, "it's awfully cold where you are."
Your head shoots up off the dining table, an ace of clubs stuck to your forehead. Apparently you passed out drunk here playing solitaire last night. Having forgotten to turn on the heat, you shiver violently in the small, icy kitchen. Somewhere, the whispering rush of a burst water pipe drones incessantly against fiberglass insulation.
----------
You've become ragged over the last few months.
You left your home abandoned to the other denizens within the first two weeks. To begin with, you were staying in anonymous bed and breakfasts and non-chain motels. They continued to find you, to hound you despite your constant calls to the desk about the harassment. It turned out they owned all the hotels.
You trekked out of the city, and eventually out of the state, hoping to leave behind their machinations. You had no idea how far their influence stretched.
When you ducked out of the greasy spoon that morning to discover your car being towed away, you realized you weren't going to be able to sleep in it anymore. You didn't even bother to read the logo on the side of the truck, you safely assumed it was an outfit they'd taken control of.
As you traversed back and forth across the country, catching what little rest you could in alleys, squatting in empty homes of every size and quality, now stopping only long enough to grab a meal every couple of days from a taco stand or a food truck, you began to grow a sense of paranoia.
What if you got hurt, or sick in Texas? Would you have to subject yourself to the local hospital they more than likely controlled? If you stumbled into territory contested by gangs in Atlanta, would you discover the beatdown you mistakenly earned came from thugs who answered to them? Should you hitch a ride with the kindly transfer driver from Santa Fe, or was the truck line now lining their pockets?
Every face was an enemy, every building one of their strongholds.
As you stand on a beach overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Jacksonville, you wonder if there's relief out there. You had thought once August Westerna had taken the mantle of the Mayor, that the dogged torment would end, but you now see Omerod, Belfort, Mercy, and Icarus on every street, feel their influence in every business with which you trade, in every crime you witness. You're a prisoner in the nation you once served as an elected official. Even now, you wonder if charting ferry would only put you in international waters on their vessel.
Completely at a loss, you drop to your knees in the lapping tide, the sea foam flecking your growing beard with white. Is this how Durrigan felt when he abandoned his oil company and family alike to live in poverty. He'd been a joke to you at the time, but now you understood loss a little more clearly.
There was nothing left but to give in to the growing influence of progress. You would have to allow yourself to become incorporated into the machine if you had any hope of continuing your life.
The sounds of the lapping waves seem somewhat unnatural as you let your mind wander, and you look down to scrutinize them. The wet lapping doesn't match the rythmn of the ebb and flow, and you shake your head to clear the confusion.
The motion brings you awake, and you sit up to find the Natural Born Killer noisily devouring an entire cake as he sits in the arm chair next to your bed.
"Must you creepily stare at my sleeping while you have your breakfast?" you spit, disgusted.
"We just got here," the voice of Forewell Boding comes from the other side of the room. "He just decided to sit down and finish his meal while I roused you."
Indeed, Boding is leaned over the foot of the bed, as if he were about to reach for you. You can't even form a question at this strangeness, but Boding catches on to your confusion quickly.
"Oh, there was a power outage last night," he explains, "doubtless They've discovered my cache of Hatchimals and hope to launch a siege around the manor. You'd best get ready for your flight if you want to escape before we're beset by their mind agents."
You're about to retort to this nonsense, but your mind goes back to the dream you just had, the life lived as a fugitive of nonstop pursuit.
"Thank you, Forewell," you nod as you throw the bedspread off yourself, "would you rouse her as well, so we can be on our way?"
You stretch as Boding reaches out to shake the UGWC World Championship.
----------
This is it. The last match of your career. You'd told them all that Horizons X would be your final hurrah, your swan song in a career spanning multiple companies and all the years since your teenaged ones. You knew it was the perfect opportunity to write the final chapter when you saw Moss Edwards go down at the hands of the Engine of Chaos, and you'd made good on your promise to carry them out with you on your back.
As the referee raises your hand, you take a deep breath and close your eyes, preparing to soak up the crowd's admiration and appreciation for a career of hard work and heart.
"Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye," the chorus begins.
Frowning, you open your eyes to regard the crowd.
"Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye."
No, this can't be. You've given them an entire decade, a body of work unmatched by anyone your age.
"Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye."
As the chants get louder, you realize that Sam Green has joined in on the chanting. You spin around, confirming that Lieberjosch, Jay, and Vinegar are chanting along with the crowd.
"Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye."
All around the ring, camera men, technicians, security, they all stare at you, waiting for you finally vacate the ring in which you no longer belong. Rydell, Ingalls, even your own partner, are adding their voices to the mix.
"Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye."
You back away to the ropes nearest the entrance ramp. That's when you realize who isn't chanting.
The Engine of Chaos, though you managed to relieve them of the Cooperative Championships, stand united near the ring apron below you, two on either side of the ramp. They stare up at you, grim expressions on their faces, as the chanting mounts to a roar.
"Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye."
Defeated, you exit through the ropes and drop to the floor. You take one last look around, tears welling up in your eyes as Ichabod points up the ramp. There, on the other side of the parted curtain, you see a welcoming party of forgotten talent.
"Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye."
Sieto Risa, Tommy Halford, Chuck Rydell, Cedric Hayes, Dante Mephisto, Ezra Wade, Enigma, Harley Addams, Lucien Valentine... they're all there, waiting for you, smiles spread as wide as their arms, to welcome you into their ranks.
"Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye."
Head down, arms drooping at your sides, you accept your fate and trudge up the ramp to join them.
As you pass through the curtain, a phone rings, jarring you awake. You reach over and grab the receiver, nearly braining yourself as you slap it against your face.
"Eh?"
"Mr. King, this is the front desk. You requested a wake up call for six a.m.?"
"Oh, too right, thanks."
You drop the receiver, paying no attention as it rolls out of your hand and off the bed.
"Mr. King? Mr. King?"
----------
"Happy Christmas, love," you can hear Richard welcoming Eden to this special dinner you've had prepared as he leads her into the dining room of the Scarlet Letter. You had all the tables removed and brought in a single, large, round dining table set for two. Loathe though you are to increase the distance between the two of you while you eat, you have spared no expense in having maximized the dishes you intend to present.
"Killian, this is..." she looks around at the multitude of covered dishes spread over the table, eyes wide. "You can't expect us to eat all this?"
"Eat what you like, love," you stand proudly with your arms clasped behind your back, "I've promised Richard he can take what we don't finish home to his wee ones."
"You have kids?" she turns to Richard, surprised.
"I've a whole mess of scamps with the wife," he smiles, "but I've wisely kept them sheltered from this business. I should think that's the best policy, wouldn't you agree?"
Eden nods guiltily.
"Enough of that," Killian waves him off. "Begone, Richard, I have wooing to finish."
You catch sight of Eden's blush in the candlelight as you usher him out of the room.
"I hope these are all prepared correctly," you announce cheerily, coming back to the table. You allow a few more moments for the anticipation to build before you begin grandly sweeping the covers off the dishes.
One by one you reveal the selections; biscuits and gravy, loaded baked potatoes, meatloaf, beef jerky, clam chowder, barbecued pork, macaroni and cheese, sloppy joes, collard greens, fried okra, pork and beans, scrapple, cole slaw, deviled eggs, gumbo, philly cheese steaks, fried bologna, and hot dogs with chili.
You watch with glee as she reacts to each dish, but you've saved the best for last. Hesitating only momentarily, you lift the lid and allow the smell of the chitlins to wash over the rest of the food.
"BLOODY HELL!" you yelp as you leap out of bed and rush the bathroom, vomiting the contents of your stomach into the toilet.
----------
You sit up in bed and stretch luxuriously. Your rest has brought you, as usual, a renewed sense of self satisfaction unmatchable by your peers.
Your comfort is interrupted, however, when you realize that Simon, Candi, and Ooley are standing around the foot of your cot. Their arms are crossed, and they regard you with disdain.
"Oh, what now?" you demand. "The 'Vain One' has made amends with Christmas and the spirit of giving, in that he's decided to share himself and his new legendary title reign with the most deserving former champion in the company. Surely I've been reformed?"
"You're... sharing your title reign..." Simon speaks slowly, pausing as if to allow some shaking revelation to settle in around your perception.
"The 'Clit Whisperer's' reawakened dominance is a generous gift to all," you point out, "but only Travis Roberts truly understands the spirit of the record-breaking season I'm beginning."
"But you're SHARING your title reign," Candi releases her right arm to gesture, palm out, as if forcibly handing you the answer.
"The 'One True Champion' fails to see the point of all this," you sigh, annoyed with the proceedings, "can you kindly get to the point?"
"As hilarious as your whirlwind romance with Travis Roberts has been," Ooley chimes in, "maybe you could come up with something better than the rom-com version of aping the Engine of Chaos?"
"Excuse me??" you're aghast at the implication. "In what way could you possibly imply that I am copying a cowardly group of penny dreadful villains banding together because they can't accomplish anything on their own?"
"Neverminding the fact that they've all held prestigious championships before launching their group," Simon points out, "couldn't the same be said about The Puppet Masters, or The Syndicate?"
"Then they're aping me, aren't they?" you cross your own arms, triumphant.
"Hardly," Candi ascertains, "where your previous factions attempted to gather the biggest egos and best talent into one elite faction each time, if you claim the Engine is doing that, it renders your previous statement about needing numbers to achieve anything untrue."
"The truth is, Humble," Ooley continues, "we've seen fit to allow the Engine's booking requests because it's something new, something interesting. They're less like an exclusive collection of top talent thugs, and more like a movement championed by forward thinkers. And all the rest of you window lickers seem to be able to do is repeat the same admonishments about sending the Engine 'off the tracks' or harping about them seeking strength in numbers."
"Meanwhile," Simon finishes, "you and 'The Headliner' put on an air of obliviousness while moving toward trying to lampoon their innovative idea."
"Enough of this," you look away, "'Fanfiction's Favorite Ship' doesn't need this pointless distraction. I intend to wake up. This instant."
And so you do.
----------
"Get in, Eden," Ichabod calls from the driver's seat of the stolen taxi. You blink, trying to remember what brought you here.
You decide to go with it. You've already made it clear to every one of them that you have no fear of the Engine of Chaos. You get into the passenger seat and pull the door. Remember your last ride with Ichabod, you quickly buckle up.
"What is this about?" you demand as he pulls away from the curb... and immediately pushes the pedal to the floor.
Determined to show no fear, you simply grip the handle harder, setting your mouth in a thin line and stilling your expression. As the lights of Chicago flash by in a blur, he finally smiles over at you.
"I got you a Christmas present," he says. "It's in the back seat."
"I know what sort of presents you give," you remind him, "am I going to reach back there to find a dead animal?"
"No, no, nothing like that," he laughs good-naturedly, "but if you want a little something in your stockings..."
The way he trails off turns your stomach.
"How do you make everything you say sound equally sinsiter and carnal?" you wonder aloud.
"Just a gift, I guess," he grins with pride. "Speaking of which..."
You roll your eyes as he tosses a pointed glance in the rearview mirror. Removing your seatbelt, you lean over the console to reach for the bag.
As soon as you're out of your equilibrium, he takes a corner so suddenly that you can see the smoke rising from the tires through the back windscreen. You flail wildly, scrambling for purchase as you force your knees under you to keep from spilling into the backseat.
"Asshole!" you snarl.
"Did you get it yet?" he calls back, as if he hadn't just given you whiplash.
"I'm trying, you choad!"
As he stamps the brakes with both feet, your entire body is thrown toward the front of the car, your middle finger hooking the bag's handle and yanking it with you. Before you can collide with the dash, however, he accelerates again while yanking the car to the left, depositing you back into the passenger seat.
"You really ought to wear a seatbelt," he scolds, "what if we were to get into an accident? There's a lot of bad drivers out, you know."
"I swear to god," you growl, "is every male professional wrestler just a boy that's been aloud to continue being a teenager for the rest of his life?"
"Yes," he admits without hesitation.
Sighing with frustration, you reach into the giant bag, extracting with some difficulty, a train set. It says 'Engine of Choo-Choos.'
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Who doesn't want a toy train for Christmas?" Ichabod says triumphantly.
"'Engine of Choo-Choos?'" you smirk, "Come on, Ichabod."
"They way I see it," he surmises, "you can either give it to one of the many rugrats your family has running around New Orleans, so you can continue this facade of a well-adjusted normal person, ready to be accepted back into their loving arms... or you can burn that lie and set fire to it the moment you have it set up. Embrace the chaos you represent, Eden. How does that sound?"
"Like a sure ticket back to incarceration," you admit. "I already tortured this family enough, I got more than my share of revenge, it was overkill what I did to them."
"Oh, jeez," he frowns, "what a pissing little cunt you've become. You used to be a lot of fun, do you know that? Now you're more like the Julia Roberts or Jennifer Anniston of edgy romantic comedies. Maybe I should have gotten you an Oscar, because that's a pretty convincing performance you're putting on with Hugh and Killian."
"Don't you fucking dare talk about H--"
Your warning is cut off as Ichabod slams on the brakes a final time. You never followed his advice and put the seatbelt back on, and you can't stop yourself from thrusting headfirst into the windshield. It stars out around the impact, and as the momentum gives up, you collapse back into your seat.
"That what you're holding," he turns bodily to regard you, "that is not what the Engine of Chaos represents. Going around and around in a circle, never getting anywhere? That's the ride you've all been on for years. We're offering chances to get off, to get a ride in the real thing."
He runs his hands over the dashboard.
"This is the real Engine," he instructs, "unpredictable, dangerous, out of control. You can refuse the ride for so long, Eden, but you will pay the fare. You all will."
With that, he reaches over you and tugs on the door handle, pushing the door open. He leans back and shoves you out with his boot.
The sense of falling restores your consciousness, and you sit up in bed, still wearing the Bah Humbug stocking cap from last night. You have a splitting headache, a hangover no doubt, and your hand shoots up to your forehead, where a knot has formed.
Did you fall?
----------
It was a great house once.
Overlooking the sea, the mansion stood for years as a fortress against mediocrity and complacency. Only those who truly worked with their noses to the grindstone, who gave as much of themselves as possible every single day of their lives, earned the right to reside here. There weren't many of you, and you hadn't been the head of the household in quite some time.
Each year, you and the house's other inhabitants had feuded endlessly, sometimes re-enacting the same rivalries, alliances, and schemes, all in an effort to continue trading the leadership role amongst you, and keep out those who would invade your home and take up residence. Your introverted nature had kept any of you from seeing what was taking place outside the walls.
Developers have moved into the area, bringing their great, earth moving Machines to alter the landscape and shape it into a new purpose. You are certain, looking back now, that someone had come to the door a few times to talk with all of you about investing, but you must have decided to ignore them, because you can't recall any of the details of their offers.
Now, you stand with your housemates, staring out from the bay windows as the landscape moves past you by inches.
It isn't truly the land itself that moves, but the house. Little by little, picking up momentum, you and your comrades ride the house down the altered slope. Soon you will all be engulfed by the tumultuous and chaotic sea.
Proud as a collection of ship captains, you each stoically refuse to abandon the house, choosing instead to stand shoulder to shoulder and nobly go down with it.
"It's been a good ride, Travis," you declare, and the men on either side of you turn to look at one another, trying to decide to which one you'd spoken.
As the waves reach up hungrily to welcome you, you lift your chin, ready to meet your end with pride.
As you awaken in your bed, you realize you still can't handle the alcohol. You'd tried to talk Eden into slowing down, but two craft beers had been enough to end the party for you. Sitting up in bed, you squeeze your skull between the palms of your hands, trying to decide if you still want to fly out to meet Vix tonight. You don't know if you're hungover from the Cold Mountains, or from the endless interwoven stories and characters your imagination seems to constantly invent.
----------
You're quick to roll out of bed, anxious to get this day started. Tonight is Horizons, the tenth iteration of the show, one destined to go down in history no matter how the matches played out.
You yawn mightily, happy you made yourself go to bed early last night. You'd flown in yesterday so you could get as much sleep as possible before the show, and you are more than ready to face the biggest event in wrestling.
This is the moment you've been building toward all year, the moment where you prove that you belong in the conversation when people discuss the World Championship contenders. And you've done it on your own, just like you said you would.
You step into your bathroom, looking to make a quick touch up shave and gel your hair before going out to greet your public.
One last obstacle to clear, three men of various stages of success--a rookie, a random EP hoping for another chance at a meaningful impact, and washed up manipulator still trying to matter.
As you empty your bladder, you reach over to open your medicine cabinet where you keep your razor and compact mirror.
This won't be a walk in the park, but you know you're more than up to the task. This is your time. Deimos had failed you. Chaos had failed you. And Jet Somers certainly hadn't done you any favors at all. You intend to end this year as the only one of them not to fail. It wasn't an option for you anymore.
You step over to the sink and wash your hands, then pick up the tube of shaving cream. After squeezing a nickel-sized portion into your left palm, you reach up to close the medicine cabinet.
The face of Jet Somers stares back at you.
You stumble backward in shock, then lean forward again, rubbing your eyes as you try to clear the image. That's when you really see the room for the first time.
Without remembering it, you realize that with the exception of the mirror itself, you've painted the entire room black.
----------
Twas the week before Horizons, when all through the world
The company was stirring, as their nightmares unfurled.
The visions of chaos, so daunting but real
Promised the outcome of fates we had sealed.
The fighters they tossed in their various beds,
While phantoms of discord dominated their heads.
From champion to champion, and all in between,
Their minds could not settle, their hopes had grown lean.
For they know that now, with a deafening clatter,
The Engine's arrival was all that could matter.
Away to history traditions they'll cast,
And free the whole industry from the dull seasons past.
Every fighter has their own part to play
With the wonders they'll show us put on display.
For after Horizons what's left to appear,
But the promised pandemonium of the Engine's new year?
Post by Engine of Chaos on Dec 10, 2016 23:59:48 GMT -5
In the middle of the ring, within the empty arena, Rogan knelt, murmuring his code of honor with his palm pressed against the mat. A foggy mist surrounded the ring, though he didn’t seem to notice. He raised his eyes, and despite being bloodshot, maintained their pale green mysterious beauty. He turned and, rising to his feet, gazed at the turnbuckle. He climbed, and in his head, could hear the match being called by Covert Jay, echoing in his head “Chasing the Lights! Chasing the Lights!” …but that wasn’t right. Something was different. He crouched upon the top, gazing down at the fog on the outside of the ring.
Sid Griffith stalked past, seeming not to notice MacLean up top. But then he spoke.
“MacLean, you pup, always chasing after the lights.”
He stopped walking, and his mouth seemed not to move at all, though it was clear that he was the one speaking.
“You should have realized by now, the lights you chase after, they’re just stars in the devil’s sky.”
He turned his head and looked up at Rogan perched at the top of the turnbuckle. One side of his face drooped like a stroke victim, but he was all too aware that he wasn’t a stroke victim, but the victim of vengeance. He tried to respond. But when he tried, his voice had left him. He couldn’t speak. Sid looked straight ahead once more, stalking forward, disappearing into the mist.
“I’m dreaming,” Rogan said aloud once his mentor disappeared. He recalled months ago attempting a double rotation moonsault and nearly breaking his neck, much to the disapproval of Sid. He glanced over his shoulder and smirked, leaping backwards. It seemed as though he were floating as he executed the double rotation moonsault and landed on his belly. He may as well have landed on a cloud with how soft the canvas was. He grinned and stood. His eyes narrowed on the entrance ramp, and, more importantly, the curtain separating the arena from the locker room. He left the ring, but as he walked up the ramp, a single figure stood on the other side of the barricade, holding something out for Rogan. It was a mask. Rogan peered through the fog and saw the face of Moss Edwards, expressionless, handing MacLean his Prince Rudo mask. Rogan took the mask, Edwards giving a single nod, and put it over his face. The fog was gone. So was Edwards. He turned and walked up the ramp, through the curtain, and into the main aisle of the locker room. A corridor that seemed endless was laid out in front of his eyes. Doors lined it on either side. The first one on his right had the Engine of Chaos logo on the front. He reached for the handle and pulled.
It was an odd sensation he felt in that moment. As he pulled the door open, he felt the door being pulled open on the other side as well. And he saw the door open in three different directions besides his own. Standing in front of him, to the right of him, and to the left of him were the members of the Engine of Chaos, all wearing Prince Rudo masks. None of them were standing in the corridor anymore, but all four were surrounded by walls made of millions of gears turning, smoke exhausting every so often, bearings spinning, motors whirring. They were in the basement of the engine. All four members gazed at each other. They all nodded simultaneously, then turned, as though they were one figure standing in one of those carnival fun houses. Rogan (and the other three reflections) turned back and, that thing you do in your dreams, where you act without thinking, as if some invisible force is pushing you and controlling you, happened to Rogan. He took a step forward, and the others did the same. They should have bumped against each other. But they didn’t.
Instead they all became one. Rogan could hear Holden’s thoughts; he could feel Gabriel’s darkness, and could relate, in a way he couldn’t describe; he could see Ichabod’s blueprints, his complex way of thinking. He could tap into all of these men—these components. He (They) turned from their locker room. As he walked up the corridor, to his left another door with another name presented itself. He could hear Holden scoff in his mind as he read the name: Jet Somers.
He entered, another of those auto-pilot dream actions. Within, Somers wasn’t anywhere to be found. Instead, Rogan saw Victoria Jensen, and she was interviewing all four members of the Engine of Chaos—and she was rather enjoying it. She blushed as each of the four members paid her compliments, answered her nervous questions, and laughed together as they joked about the relevance of UGWC’s legends.
Rogan was watching the dreams of Jet Somers. And in them, Victoria Jensen had become the Engine’s personal interviewer. She even wore an Engine of Chaos spaghetti strap and seemed to have a sort of bad girl image about her. In Rogan’s mind, all four members grinned. Somers wasn’t dreaming. He was having a nightmare. About the Engine of Chaos.
Chuckling, Rogan closed the door. They were in a corridor of doorways to their fellow workers’ dreamlands. Fascinating. All four members were fascinated by it. They turned, across from Jet’s locker room, another door was closed. This one, Mil Vidas Jr. Rogan’s personal rival since joining UGWC.
Rival, Ichabod spat in his mind, not much of a rivalry when one side never wins.
He could feel Gabriel smirk hatefully within him.
He opened the door. Vidas was in a wrestling ring, but not UGWC’s. Rogan could only assume that it was a ring from MVJ’s past, as it pulsed with a Mexican wrestling environment.
But how? Rogan thought. It’s just a ring surrounded by darkness. There isn’t even anyone in the arena.
Yeah there is, Rogan, Ichabod responded. You just can’t see them. But, you can feel them. Can’t you?
He could, Ichabod was right. He could feel thousands of sets of eyes watching Vidas wrestle another figure in a mask—
Scoff, Holden thought to Rogan, it’s not just some figure. Open your eyes, Rogues, it’s you in there.
Rogan squinted, peering through the dusty air and indeed seeing himself wrestling against Vidas, and he was wearing a mask. A Prince Rudo mask. He watched as the Rogan in MVJ’s dream suddenly seemed to be in trouble. Vidas had the upper hand on him, and was calling for his finishing move.
There’s a first, Gabriel mocked.
And, as Vidas climbed the turnbuckle, Rogan snuck up behind him, performing his own finishing move on the luchador. Instead of covering him, however, Rogan grabbed him by his mask, and yanked back, ripping the mask off of the young luchador in a single motion. Vidas raised his head, and suddenly all the people the Engine had felt when they entered the dream appeared behind the barricades, laughing like the audience in a sitcom. MVJ covered his face, humiliated. Within, Gabriel cackled in pure amusement. Dream Rogan tossed MVJ’s mask out into the fans and was actually applauded. The fans loved it. When Dream Rogan exited the ring, Vidas was left alone in the ring, where he was booed at a deafening level. When he did finally stand, trash was thrown in the ring. It was clear he was the most detested wrestler in Mexico.
Okay, that’s enough, Rogan thought, though he was still obviously amused. He shut the door and stepped further down the corridor. Next it was Eden Morgan’s locker room. Really? Someone who isn’t even facing the Engine of Chaos has a place in this corridor of nightmares? Gabriel cleared his throat in Rogan’s head. Ah, of course.
He entered. The heat in the room was nearly unbearable, yet he stood, gazing with interest, into a tidal wave of fire, an ocean of flames. Behind the wall of fire, he could hear something else. Music? He listened closely. They all did.
“Buuuuuuuuurn me alive, set me on fire, and watch me die”
It was a woman’s voice. Eden’s? He couldn’t tell. Gabriel surfaced. Rogan went under. Now it was Gabriel who was watching. It was Angelfields. And it was indeed Eden Morgan. Peering into the fire, Gabriel could see her silhouette. And it was burning.
“There’s no reason to cry now,” she sang. “There’s nothing to forgive. This suffering’s my blessing. The death of sin is how I live.”
The cryptic lyrics resonated, and seemed to echo forever in this room of fire. From within the Engine, Rogan watched carefully as Gabriel stepped forward. The fire began to subside, though it still ran as far as the eye could see. Gabriel realized, as the fire cleared from Eden, that she truly was on fire, a brand on her forehead of the Engine of Chaos logo. For a long time her eyes closed, and Gabriel stepped closer. Then they opened wide as she screamed.
“Buuuuuuuuurn me alive, watch me resurrect, right before your eyes.”
Gabriel, startled, stepped back, but continued to look on with interest. Within, Ichabod was shaking his head and chuckling.
This truly is her nightmare. This is her hell. To resurrect just to be burned alive over and over again. By the Engine.
Do you think so? Rogan responded.
She may act like she’s invincible, Ichabod said, but everyone has their breaking point. The Engine is the definition of what she hates: someone or something who brings the shock factor better than she does.
Gabriel stepped out and closed the door. A satisfied smirk formed on the face of the Engine. The next locker room door read Jason Ingalls. When he stepped through, he knew where he was almost immediately. He was in Sid’s training facility in Indy. He could see Jase starting to turn to go up the stairs to the apartment, then stop and crane his neck and squint his eyes in the darkness. Across the room, it wasn’t Sid standing near the facility’s shower room, but Chaos. Rogan knew what was about to happen.
“NO!” Jase screamed.
But it was too late. Stepping out of the shower room was a hybrid of all four members of EoC, wielding a mallet and swinging it against the skull of Chaos. He fell to the ground and slumped over. The hybrid Engine gave Ingalls a wink as it exited the facility. Ingalls stood alone, enraged, as the dream started to fade. Rogan realized Ingalls was about to wake up. He turned to open the door, but it was fading too. Holden emerged, timing the door fading in and out of existence, and charged forward, sending them back into the corridor.
That was a close one, lads.
What do you suppose would have happened had we not gotten through that door? Gabriel inquired.
We’d be trapped in that imbecile’s mind for God knows how long. The joke would then be on us.
They shared a laugh as they continued down the corridor. Alex Stein’s door was next. They entered a mixed martial arts gym, and could see Stein right away, the big dumb animal stood out from everyone else in the gym.
Who’s that? Rogan asked.
Standing behind Stein was another man, but Stein didn’t see him.
Mickey Dragon, Ichabod responded.
I thought he was dead?
Not in Stein’s dreams, he isn’t. You can have a man killed and given the Captain Hook treatment, but his ghost can resurrect from the tick-tock croc and haunt your dreams for the rest of your life.
Stein turned suddenly, and stared, wide-eyed at Mickey Dragon. Behind Mickey stepped the four members of the Engine of Chaos. Mickey raised a gun and winked at Stein before pulling the trigger, shooting him in the same knee he shot him before. Stein yelped and fell to the ground. No one else in the gym seemed to notice. Dragon turned and grinned at the members of the EoC, as they held out one of their shirts. He took it and threw it over his head, wearing the logo proudly as the other members welcomed him with open arms. The dream began to get fuzzy, but Rogan was already leaving into the corridor.
The door disappeared behind them. The next locker room door was Dave Rydell’s. They stepped through to see Rydell standing at a podium. In front of him, Mil Vidas Jr was in shackles and it seemed as though Rydell was sentencing him to prison. He was about to slam down his gavel, which wasn’t a gavel at all, but a croquet mallet, when suddenly he was attacked from behind. Rogan MacLean led the charge, dressed as a refugee, wrapping his arm around Rydell’s throat. Gabriel held a syringe to his neck, while Ichabod and Holden Orson removed MVJ’s shackles. Vidas stepped up to the podium, grinning behind his luchador mask. As he threw a new Engine of Chaos shirt on, he pointed his finger at Rydell, sentencing him to a prison sentence for impersonating an authority figure. Rydell screamed out, but Gabriel injected the contents in the syringe into his neck and Rogan dragged him away.
Laughing, they left the dream, wiping tears from their eyes.
Who’s next, I wonder?
By this time, inside their hybrid mind, the four members were sat in seats just behind Rogan’s physical eyes, and they were all co-piloting the engine they occupied. They all watched as Rogan reached the next door: Austin Alexander.
He opened it, but before he could enter, a dark demonic shape reached out and grabbed the door.
“Give me that,” it hissed, “that’s my dreamcatcher.”
It slammed the door, and abruptly the door disappeared in front of their eyes.
That was startling.
The next door was Jordan King’s. When they opened it, they found themselves standing in an apocalyptic wasteland. A man at a distance could be seen, only because of his blue and yellow jumpsuit he was wearing. While crouching, the man made his way across the screen. They assumed that was Jordan King. What was he sneaking up on? They scaled the wasteland.
There! Holden exclaimed, driving the controls to force Rogan to point in that direction.
The other three squinted, and nearly simultaneously, saw the figure that Holden saw. It was a monstrosity of a creature, and all black. It was a Deathclaw. It had an Engine of Chaos logo branded on its back as it surveyed its surroundings. Meanwhile, Jordan King continued to sneak through the wasteland and getting closer and closer to the EoC monster.
He switched weapons to a gatling gun.
Predictable, Ichabod breathed.
The Deathclaw must have heard the noise behind him, as it turned suddenly, saliva hanging from the teeth of an open mouthed snarl. King began letting loose, spraying dozens of bullets in the Deathclaw’s direction. But the Deathclaw seemed not to be phased by it, as it reached out, and grabbed Jordan King.
Christ, that thing’s arm must have stretched out thirty feet just now.
It’s evolved, Rogan said, like us. No longer can vault dwellers attack from a safe distance. No distance is safe anymore here. The Deathclaws run the wastelands.
Gabriel looked at Rogan with interest inside their engine, then shrugged and nodded. Ichabod, lighting up a fresh cigar, grinned, clenching the cigar with his teeth. Holden simply nodded as he gazed at the horizon, understanding Rogan’s description perfectly.
They left the dream just as the Deathclaw was removing Jordan’s head from his body.
The next door was Travis Pierce. The four members looked at each other as their engine idled in front of it.
There’s one more after this one, it looks like, Gabriel said. Shall we enter?
Nah, Rogan replied. This door is a trick door. We enter, we become lulled to sleep by irrelevance, we become trapped in the mind of irrelevance, we wither away and become at one with irrelevance.
After a long pause, Ichabod spoke up. Yeah. Good point.
They made their way to the last door: Chaos.
They entered.
Inside was a floor covered in Chadweiser cans. A small path had been made from the couch to a hallway. They followed the path into a bathroom, where Chaos stood, hands bracing the sink and staring down into the abyss of the drain. His hair was a mess, and he was clearly hungover. Of course, they could probably assume that from the number of beer cans they had to wade through just to get to the bathroom. He hocked and spit a juicy loogie into the sink before standing upright and glaring into the mirror at his own bloodshot eyes.
“The fuck did I do?”
He bent his head forward and his glare turned to shame as he stared at his shirt: an Engine of Chaos shirt.
“I’m their newest fuckin’ member. And they stand for everything I don’t. What. The fuck. Happened last night?”
“Daddy?”
It was his daughter. But she wasn’t a one year old anymore, she was a toddler, standing in her little onesie pajamas in the doorway of the bathroom. She was staring at the logo on his shirt. She was very familiar with who the Engine of Chaos was.
“You’re a bad guy now?”
The disappointment showed on her face, before she began to cry. Chaos tried to reach out to comfort her, to assure her that it wasn’t what it looked like, but before he could step forward, she ran off to her bedroom, bawling, traumatized by the thought that her daddy was a bad guy.
The Engine half-smirked and left the dream. In the corridor, the doors had all disappeared. But some new ones were beginning to appear in the walls—dozens of them. The Engine stood and the four smiled at each other.
Shall we? Gabriel said with a smile.
The other three agreed as the Engine continued to observe the dreams and nightmares of everyone—fans, UGWC stars, stars across the industry, before finally waking up the next morning.
The engine opened its eyes. It primed its pumps by itself, did a system diagnostics check with nothing to report, and started its program.
Post by Engine of Chaos on Dec 11, 2016 0:01:51 GMT -5
The Echo Origins Corporation had been born out of a game – a single competition between four men who neither liked, nor trusted one another. It had been rumoured, in fact, that one of the three had meant to pull apart the life of one of his fellows, strand by strand, for no other reason than the fact that he could. That man, was Glendale Belfort and his victim? Harry Omerod. Of course, he’d made out that this entire agreement had been about the old lot that Harry had owned back in the day – but the truth was much simpler.
Glendale had seen Harry as an opportunity to make a name for himself.
He was ripe for the picking – a loner with few friends. No-one would mourn his loss. He’d been known by another name, back in the day, but now? That was a name that he merely scoffed at. The old lot where he brewed up coffee was all that Harry had left – and Glendale had intended to steal it from him. The plan was simple – take what the man loved, and he’ll give you anything to get it back. Even his outright devotion.
Belfort was a bastard – and he didn’t cae.
He’d spent years amassing a following using leverage – and now he had eyes everywhere. People who feared him or people who were loyal to him… It was all the same. As long as they brought him data, he always had control. He could move all of the pieces however he wanted. Harry was just the next in line, and the trap was about to be spring shut.
And then came Icarus… And everything would change.
The Horseman had rode in on his steed and prevented Belfort from advancing to the meeting in which Omerod would sign over his lot. Icarus had requested the pleasure of a meeting with the man who had so much control. Belfort had laughed and refused. Icarus offered him as a tribute, and in exchange for a conversation. A well-known individual of former standing who had fallen on hard times.
Perhaps there was a deal to be made after all.
Icarus had suggested that they should come together to play a game, intending to toy with the city and - more specifically - those who had held the power for so long. He suggested that they should make a pact – the collective would grow. They would all prosper from this game, and in the end, they would own the city. Glendale had doubted his fellow’s intentions, and the early days had been fraught with challenges.
Rylan Mercy being the most complex of all.
The youngster had agreed to join the game – he had capital and a mysterious benefactor who had agreed to stake him in. He was flash and often brash – but worst of all he didn’t seem to buy in to the concept. This was no issue to Glendale – he wasn’t buying in either. He was merely waiting for the opportunity by which he could benefit most and he would take it. But Rylan wasn’t even playing the game – at times, he was downright apologetic.
And appearances were everything.
The city had begun to fear their power and spread – and this was despite the four clearly not being on the same page. They were fractured at times – with only Icarus and Harry seeming to remain united. They had their first opportunity to topple the self-centred Mayor Theodore Rogerson – but Glendale and Rylan had failed. Harry and Icarus, however, had come much closer. In the end, however, Rogerson had managed to slither through by the skin of his teeth and his grasp on power had been maintained.
Icarus, however, had made quite the impression.
The group rallied, their vision aligned. They finally began to work together, quickly realising that they were much greater than the sum of their parts. Sure, the Railway brought in a healthy income and allowed for much control of the access to the city, but when the Echo Origins Corporation had then gone on to purchase the steelworks, the timber mill and the locomotive factory – well… They suddenly had the means to build more and more railways at only a fraction of the cost. It was a wonderful thing to own the gas works, but to own the electricity plant as well? Every heated home, every restaurant, every business in the city had to pay their dues. They bought and they bought until every home paid the price
Yet the people still loved them for it.
The more they owned, the more they could give back… The more they could get their hands on, the less they needed to charge. In the end, the people were begging for the EOC to own whatever they could – they changed the established order, they made things better… They were good for the city. Of course, this wasn’t a positive move for everyone – the original settlers of this city were unwilling to bend, and unwilling to change. They wanted to keep what was theirs and be damned with the future. While the Echo Origins Corporation purchased everything in the collective, those who came before were only ever interested in personal glory.
And Theodore Rogerson was no different.
It had been over a month since Icarus had called Theodore out in public for a debate. It had been a hard run thing, but Rogerson was still the Mayor once it had finished. Many had agreed that Icarus had won the day, but it was Rogerson who raised his hand. Icarus was never one to claim victory where one had never been – and truth be told, he would much rather Harry had taken centre stage. This was not to be, however, as he and Rylan Mercy had been tasked with wrestling the King Vidas restaurant away from Janus Koleman and Matías Vasquez Jnr. The reastaurant was an odd thing – a strange mix of Australian and Mexican cuisine which often left the diner disappointed and wanting more.
The reviews were simple – dull, bland food that keeps on repeating no matter what you do.
Still, it was a popular place – and the Co-Operative owners were ousted with ease. Rylan and Holden were successful that night and the Battleground had been kind to Glendale as well. He managed to wrestle the Chaos bar from the deed holder, Antoine Steel – a ridiculously hairy man, with a strange German nickname. It hadn’t been as easy for Glendale as he’d expected – unfortunately, a continual thorn in his side had reared her pretty head – Elouise Magdalen had looked to stake her claim for the venue. She’d put up quite the fight.
She’d failed.
Everything seemed to be going the way of the EOC, until tragedy had struck. Glendale’s Aquarium had mysteriously burnt to the ground – whilst the donation provided by Icarus had survived, Belfort had unfortunately lost some prized exhibits had been lost. Despite his bravado to the contrary, loss of his favourite place had hit Glendale hard and those who were close to him – very few in deed – had become concerned at his erratic behaviour.
More erratic than normal.
The Echo Origins Corporation had been successful, no-one could deny that – but the truth was that they had collected their fair share of enemies. They had been treading on toes since day one and it was only natural that at some point, those who they had wronged would come back to haunt them. The unwashed masses may have rained down their support for those who had helped to seriously boost the economy and feeling of community spirit, but those who had come before – they were less than enamoured with the Echo Origins Corporation.
And so we come to tonight.
"Let us bring to order this town hall meeting – I, Theodore Rogerson, shall chair the meeting." The mayor said – his arm wafting through the air with pomp and circumstance. He wasn’t alone on the dais. August Westerna, as was seemingly the norm these days, was stood beside his new friend. They had managed to come to some kind of mutual accord, despite the fact that just twelve months before they had been at one anothers throats.
"The honourable August Westerna will take notes, whilst the representative of our town council will field any questions as concerns the legality of our actions." Rogerson tipped his rather large hat in the direction of Lord Donnell Harding – a ridiculous man, who considered himself above all the rest despite his abject buffoonery. Harding raised his eyebrows at this seemingly high honour.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we all know why we are here today – we are here to discuss the ongoing issues with the Echo Origins Corporation." There were a number of boos and hisses at the name. "We have been too lenient with this band of rapscallions – they’ve toyed and played with us all for far too long. It was fine when we thought they were nothing more than locusts, eating their fill and then moving on. But they have settled in our fine City and we’re paying the consequences."
August stepped forward next to his friend, and placed a hand on the Mayor’s back.
"I have had little to no interaction with this band of brigands – no doubt they feared my devilishly handsome good looks, and rapier-like wit - but I can see the folly of allowing such men to go unimpeded. What, for example, would I do if they started to move into the realms of womanising? I could not accept such a challenge to my title as this City’s premier cunning linguist." August took a deep breath and shook his head. "That would be more disturbing to the Vain one, than the loss of Gertrude."
Westerna shook his head – the shocking loss of his mother’s rocking chair during the summers harsh winds had hit him hard.
"Well said, my friend – well said. But my people, we have the cure to that which ails us – we must fight them at their own game. We must take back what is ours through force. We must run them out of our fair City forever!" The Mayor expected much adulation for this apparent revelation – but none came. Instead, he heard muted coughs and saw the exchanged rolling of eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off by an unlikely source.
"Gentlemen – I understand that not all of ya, are fans of us foreigners… Especially those from down under…" He ignored the childish chuckles that came from the exchanged looks of the Westerna and the buffoon upon stage. "But I have to ask, what is it that you expect to gain from fighting them at their own game?"
"Victory, Janus! What else?" Answered Theodore with a hearty fist pump.
"Beggin’ ya pardon, mate – but fightin’ these guys at their own game tends to end in loss – me an’ Matías here can tell you that better than most. We’ve tried to fight ‘em off for months and every time we’ve fell short. Sure, we’ve had brief victories but in the end, they took what was ours and left nothing behind. Ain’t that right, Matías?" Janus looked down at his smaller friend.
"Si senor…" Answered Matias. There was an audible scuffle towards the back of the hall, but we’ll come to that later.
"So tell me, my young Amigo… Do you think this fight is all but lost?" Asked Theodore with a rye smile.
"Si senor…" Answered Matias again.
"Do you think we should give up and run away?" Asked Theodore, his smile turning into a shrewd wonderment.
"Si senor…" Said Matias – at this point, Janus was starting to look confused. This time, it was August who stepped in.
"Do you think we should offer them the best oral sex they’ve ever had in exchange for giving up what they’ve taken from us?"
"Si senor..." Added Matias one last time. Theodore and August exchanged looks and raucous laughs.
"The man can’t even speak English…" Guffawed the Mayor as August slapped him hard on the back.
"No Senor… I speak perfect English…"
There was an awkward silence broken only by a cough and the words “build a wall” breaking the silence, plus another round of scuffling.
"What, pray tell, is it that you’re suggesting, Janus?” Asked Theodore, trying hard to move the subject along.
"Senor, what Janus is suggesting is that we need to be more proactive. We need to attack this head on – they will not just fade into the night. They must be stopped. They must be prevented from advancing any further." Added Mathias in perfect English.
"Don’t be thinking for one second that it will be you that stops them, boys." Said John Inverdale, stepping away from holding back the man by his side.
"These EOC pricks have been on my ass for months – you think I’m going to let you be the guys who stop it? Hell no. What other reason do you think I’d team with this son of a bitch?"
He pointed over his shoulder at the scowling Darius Rinder. He seemed to have a clear and burgeoning hatred for the foreigners in the room – most specifically, those whom John was addressing.
"You have no right to try and take down this corporation of echoing originals. You’ve not even proved that you’re in this town legally. Do you have permits? Do you pay taxes? Do you have any idea who it is that you’re addressing? I am the protector of this cities borders… I am the man who will make this city great again."
"Sir, you are nothing of the sort – you have no authority to make requests of any of our citizenry." Said Thoedore with a roll of his eyes.
"But Mr. Mayor, I can assure you when it comes to the politics of this situation, you would be best advised to bring me aboard. I can help rid the city of these men, by force if required. I would even suggest that Icarus and Holden are from Canada – they should be removed. Just like the Mexican and the Australian."
"What in glory of our city is a “Canada”, “Mexican” and an “Australian”?" Asked Harding.
"No idea…" Said August with a smile.
"Look forget him – the facts are simple. We’ll do all the heavy lifting – we’ll go into that bar of yours, we’ll take out whoever it is that’s in there and if you’re really good, we’ll let you stay for a drink before we take the deeds – got it?"
The four men suddenly began to face up to one another, there was a fight brewing… And the Mayor didn’t like it.
"My people, please – There is no need to fight amongst yourselves. We can rid our city of this gang of rapscallions, especially if we do this together…" Theodore pleaded.
"Mr. Mayor… May I make mention of something I believe to be pertinent?" Added the paranoid looking individual with a strange hat.
"Why of course Mr…"
"Belding… Fenton Belding." The man answered slowly walking to the front of the hall. "Let me ask you a question, Mr. Mayor. You and your friend, August, have a Charity boxing match planned this coming Monday – is that right?"
"That is correct, sir." Theodore answered with a grin. He exchanged a nod with Westerna and turned back to Belding.
"And pray tell – how many tickets have you sold for said event?" Asked Fenton with a knowing smile.
"Well… That’s… I mean. We have many who are interested in buying…" The Mayor replied with a faltering smile.
"As I thought – your ticket sales are low. Would it interest you to know that our friends at the Echo Origins Corporation have three separate events planned that night, which have sold out already?" Added Fenton.
"And we have some guests who are here tonight who plan on attending and bringing their party to a hold." Westerna quipped, looking down at some of the people in attendance.
"Oh I’m sure you do, Mr. Mayor. Yet I can’t help but sense a conspiracy here ladies and gentlemen… A conspiracy that stems from…"
The crowd seem to have held their collective breaths…
"The Ilaminuti!" He exclaims, his arms out stretched. The sighs came like a raw, and the eye-rolling was almost louder. Fenton was quickly dragged away.
"He has a point you know…" Came the sweet call of Elouise Magdalen who sat off to the side. She pulled herself from under the arm of her beau – the rakish and handsome rapscallion – Karian Kallum.
"You’re stood up there telling us all that everything is going to be fine, but the truth is much darker. Gentlemen, you toil and sweat to promote this match but these men swallow your following. Day by day, the EOC spread their chaotic word and the people continue to watch. We’ve all tried our damndest to fight them alone but nothing we’ve done so far has halted their charge. The people are paying to see them, not to see you."
"And you think you’re in any better position, my dear? Lest we not forget that this time last year, not a one of us could truly trust you." Snapped Theodore. "You have done much to prove your worth to this community, since, but you’re the last to talk to us about comradery."
"Now that’s not strictly speaking true, guv’nor." Spoke up Karian with a smile. "In fact, I’d say my dear sweet Elouise, here, did a fine job in amassing one of the greatest alliances that this fine city has ever seen. I admit fair share in responsibility for the end of our syndicate, but that doesn’t change the fact that – when properly motivated – Elouise is one hell of a motivator."
"She’s also one hell of a strategist – and one would suggest that she could well be pulling the strings from behind the scenes this time. It would hardly be the first time she’s stirred the pot."
The voice had come from the darkness – the inky black pierced only by the voice. The entire room turned to face what they had assumed had been an empty corner.
"Of course, that’s Elouise’s modus operandi, is it not? To promise the world only to snatch it away at the very last minute. Her recently departed former fiancé could attest to that, had he not been tragically lost to us. In fact, Theodore, you yourself were on the receiving end of some of her dastardly deeds were you not?" Added Phoenix Demonside with a chill.
"Now, Phoenix – that’s all water under the bridge, there’s no need for…" Theodore added, extending his hand, but Phoenix forged on.
"If you’re all too foolish to see through her façade, than whatever happens to you next is on your own heads. The facts remain that she has shown herself quite capable of the same kind of malice aforethought that she displayed when you all so desperately wanted to see her fail – for her own good of course."
The tension in the room was palpable as Kallum stepped forward – Elousie, however, put her hand across his chest.
"What’s the matter, Phoenix? You can’t handle a few mind games? You’ve made a life on spreading fear and discord – you lurk in the shadows waiting for the exact moment that you can snap your jaws and hit people where it hurts. Your attempts to play games with my head have backfired and now you want to play the victim. You’re just pathetic – and I’ve got your number."
To her side, Kallum stepped back, nodding his head in appreciation.
"You and I have business to attend to, Phoenix – but that’s not why we’re all here is it. I promise you, though, I will end this – and I will make you wish you’d never even set eyes on me. You’ll wish that you never followed me Cross Hemispheres. You’ll wish you never walked in here tonight claiming to be hard done to when you’ve done as much wrong as I have."
There was movement in the darkness, and the outline of a face grew from the dark – it was smling.
"That’s the difference between you and I though, isn’t it Elouise? I’ve never claimed to have changed."
"Enough!" Yelled Theodore from the dais, clearly unhappy that his meeting had been side-tracked. "We have enough to contend with, without all of your petty squabbles."
The eyes of the room turned on him – they didn’t like that. Still – Theodore Rogerson had always considered his words to be more important, more interesting and all together more valuable than those of the men and women in this room. An awkward silence hung…
"I merely mean that we have a sickness in our city and if we do not cure it, it will be the canker that spreads. We must cut it away, my fine citizens."
"Hazzah!" Came a shout from the back of the room. Several heads tilted back with exasperation, but August Westerna seemed to be amused, bordering on happy at the latest speaker.
"Carmine the Great – how good it is to see you. You’ve brought your butler I see…" Said The Vain one as the sound of metal clanking against stone floor broke the silence. The Knight walked forward, in full armour, his visor continuously slipping over his face. In his wake, came his somewhat jaded looking man-slave, Charlie.
"My fine gentlemen, it is I – Carmine the Great! I come forth to pledge my life to this quest. The Engine of Chaos will fall, or I will die trying!" The Knight said with great aplomb. The crowd exchanged looks, before Charlie spoke,
"Carmine – it’s the Echo Origins Corporation. No-one knows what you’re talking about." He looked up towards the dais. "Apologies, sirs, he’s a little confused – it’s been a difficult year for him."
"You know not of what you speak, Charlie! This Echo Origins Corporation is not the threat – it is the Engine of Chaos!" Exclaimed Carmine, with his arms outstretched.
"Is this another conspiracy? I’ve not heard that one…" Called Fenton from the back of the hall.
"This is ridiculous – a farce!" Called Lord Harding from his seat. He slapped his thigh enthusiastically. "Why are such creatures being allowed to attend such a meeting. I will not have this – it is folly."
"You’d know all about folly – wouldn’t you, Donnell?" Called Karian from his place at Elouise’s side. She looked up at him and shook her head. "You’re entire life is a folly – floundering from ridiculous idea to another. All the time, following our Mayor here around like a puppy-dog, swooning at his every word. No wonder your children are ashamed to call you father."
The room seemed to thicken with tension – this was somewhat personal.
"Outrage! You dare speak of my children – how many times have I told you to leave my children out of this. You have no business speaking of them." Shouted Donnell with an outstretched and shaking hand.
"I think you’ll find YOU have no business speaking of them, Lord Harding. Because every time you do you shame them further. You act like you’re a family man but the truth is that like everything, you’re in this for yourself. You want to talk about farce, then let’s take a look at what you’ve accomplished over the last two years – all the while turning your backs on that which you say you love the most."
Harding’s face was ashen – he shook his head. The indignity was palpable.
"You speak of things you do not understand, Kallum. Of course, you would find it difficult to speak at all should you be limited to just matters of which you have understanding. I have watched your “so-called” best friend wooed away from you by a man holding power. I’ve watched you fawn over a women who had chosen your former friend – only now to come to your side now that he has diminished. I’ve watched you flounder following a year of great success, achieving little in the process." Yelled Harding with malice in his eyes.
For a moment, Kallum seemed to loose some of his bravado, but as quickly as it fell away it returned.
"Yet despite all of that, I hold the very thing that you want to take, my Lord. Can’t have had that poor of a year can I." Grinned Karian.
Harding leaned forward, with the sneering smile on his face.
"All I want, is to shut that mouth of yours for good."
"Gentlemen, please – we have to get back to the point at hand…" Pleaded Theodore. "I think that’s the problem here, Mr. Mayor – you are focused on gentlemen. You should be looking to the fairer sex to solve your problem." Came a voice from within the crowd.
"Better than that, you should be looking to a bond greater than that of business. You should be looking to a bond of family – of friendship." The second voice said as the crowd started to pary.
The sisters had only been in the city for a few months, but they had made quite an impact. Izabella Olga and Victoria, had disappeared for a while only making their return during the last few weeks – they had set their sights high,.
"We have faced the Echo Origins Corporation before…" said Izabella. "We know how to defeat them."
"I’m sorry…" Came the voice of Antoine Steel. "But didn’t they defeat you and run you out of your own show? They own that building now, do they not?"
"Much like your bar, Steel. I don’t think you’re one to talk." Victoria shot back, without looking at him.
"We merely mean that we have faced them, and we have come close to defeating them. They have a weakness, and we know how to exploit it."
"And what, pray tell, is said weakness." Asked August with amusement.
"Well if we told you that, we wouldn’t be valuable now would we?" Victoria added with a wink. August suddenly seemed less amused.
"Ladies, we appreciate that you think you have something but the truth is much more sinister." Added Brian Ogleby, the man with the baseball bat in his hands at all time – he called it Larry. No idea why – fucking stupid name. "Almost everyone in here has defeated and been defeated by the Echo Origins Corporation – I’ve loved it by the way. It’s been fucking hilarious to watch…"
"I have not…" Waved Theodore with a grin.
"Nor have I…" Smiled August.
Ogleby did not look impressed
"Whoopty-fucking-do… You want a sticker for that?” He said pointing the bat at the men on the stage. He turned back to the sisters. ”This is not an ordinary group – they change, they move and they will continue to grow in strength no matter what they throw at you. You bunch of useless pricks want to take them down, you’re going to have to think of something they’ve not thought of first."
"And that is where I come in." Replied the sauntering figure of Alan Armstrong. "I am an unknown quantity to the Engine and therefore I am most likely to dethrone them. I have a… Wait… Sorry what’s that? I can’t here you, could you speak up for a second… No… No, the reception is terrible in here… Could… You… Ah… Yes, much better, now what were you saying? Ok… Ok… Fuck you!"
Each and every person exchanged looks as Armstrong appeared to be having an argument with himself… It was somewhat twee and cliché, but most of all – it was odd.
"You have nothing, Armstrong – you’re just going to get in my way." Came the growling voice sat at the back.
Slowly – the man known by most as Anarchy slowly climbed to his feet. He finished his beer and dropped the can on the floor.
"That’s littering – can someone do something about the littering?" Said Lord Hastings quietly to Theodore who waved him back.
"The EOC is a pack of wild dogs – at their strongest when they are together. The four of them as a collective group would be difficult to defeat. Not impossible, but difficult. Their collective is stronger than the individuals – they must be separated to be defeated. We have that opportunity now – to break them apart and take them down in smaller bites. That is my goal when I go to the Chaos Bar this coming Monday. I will walk in, and whichever of them I find sat in there I will take them apart little by little – step by step. Alan… I suggest you don’t get in my way."
Alan’s eyes widened with what appeared to be fury. Anarchy pulled open another beer and began to chug.
"You have no right to talk to me that way – I may have struggled in this city, but I tell you this for nothing. I will be the greatest man this city has ever seen – I will be the ab… so… lute. Best. You mark my words."
"You do that kid – I’ll just focus on breaking my foot off in the ass of whichever member of the EoC is in that bar. They’ll regret what they’ve done to me and my city… I swear it."
"THAT is the spirit I want to see! That is the kind of fight we need to see!” Said the mayor with glee. ”Brothers and sisters we must come together and…!"
"Why?" Came the question from the media man towards the back of the room – arguably the cities most famous face. Theodore Parsons was the anchor man for PMN news.
"What do you mean, why? Have you not been listening?" Asked the Mayor in anger.
"Oh I’ve been listening, Mr. Mayor. I’m just wondering whether your concern truly is for this town or whether what you’re truly worried about is the election come January."
"I… I… I have no idea what you’re trying to say, Parsons." Blustered Rogerson, but his brief look towards August must have given him away.
"We all know the stakes of your little fight, gentlemen – whoever wins will be Mayor of this City come Tuesday morning but one month later? Well… All bets are off. You’re afraid that when election season is upon us, one of the four men we’re here to discuss will step forward to face yo. You’re afraid that given their levels of popularity that they’ll take that crown away from you. You want them to be taken out before that could even become a possibility. But let me throw something into sharp relief for you gentlemen – they will not face you come Election Day. But I will…"
There was a shocked murmur hovering through the room as Parsons staked his claim to be the next Mayor, but it appeared he wasn’t alone. Rinder stepped forward, only to be pushed back into place by Inverdale – but Antoine Steele was not to be held back.
"You may think you have the rights of this, Parsons – but you’re not walking into that election without a fight. I’ve watched what I’ve built since I came back to this city be stolen away from me and I have no intentions of letting you, or anyone else take this away from me either. Come January, gentlemen, whichever one of you is the Champion I swear to all that there is in the Universe that I will take your seat... I will humiliate you… And I will win."
Theodore looked like he was fixing to speak, but he was cut off – by someone new.
"I’ve been quiet his past year – I know. Some have said that the emergence of this new threat has been the reason. I disagree – much like my friend Anarchy, I have made it my goal to spend this year making sure that I stepped in only where it was required. I came forward to honor a legend of this city – Morlan Entwhistle. I’ve supported Elouise through her return to health and I tried to mend the wound that had grown between myself and a former friend."
He looked at Parson’s out of the corner of his eye.
"But now is the time for Jethro Somerhalder to step forward to heel a bigger wound – the one in this city. You’ve been our Mayor for long enough, Theodore. But I’ll be damned if I see one of those Echo Origins clowns challenge you for your title. So here it is… The three of us stand in the way of the threat to you. But in the end… It will be one of us who will BE the threat to you. I promise that."
"You always talked too much, Jethro." Said Parsons, rounding on his former friend.
Steele merely stepped back with a grin, watching the two square up to one another.
"Gentlemen, please – your point is moot. We’re here to talk about the threat of the Echo Origins Corporation, and now you’re all talking about becoming the same kind of threat to my title as they are. This is getting out of hand…" Theodore began. A hand, however, pushed him back away from the microphone.
"Surely, my friend, you mean our title…" Said August with a rye smile. "Surely you’re not suggesting that come January, you know it will be you that they would face – because, friend, I can assure you that if we’re making predictions it won’t be you standing for reelection."
Theodore’s eyes widened in shock.
"But, we had an accord, August. We would love and cherish this role together. We would fight an exhibition. It would be merely that – we are happy as we are, are we not? We are friends. Compatriots. We are…"
"We are everything you’ve said and more, Theodore, but do not think for one second that I would lie down for you because of what you think we have as friends. This fight will be for the ages, and it is one that I intend on winning."
Theodore’s mouth curled into a sneer.
"Then prepare, my friend to feel the pain of abject failure. Come Monday, I will show you the error of your choices and you will fall."
Seeing the two formerly united leaders almost coming to blows, the rest of those in attendance could not be controlled – slowly the meeting descended into chaos. Those who sought to challenge one another began to bicker and argue, those who didn’t care merely watched in amusement. It was at that moment that our newest guests saw fit to spring their trap. The doors to the rear of the hall had been locked, and now the doors at the front had been locked too. No-one noticed the screen that had slowly began to lower behind the dais. No-one noticed as it flickered into life. No-one even noticed as Glendale Belfort, Rylan Mercy, Harry Omerod and Icharus watched over their futile jostling for superiority, with white snow drifting down in front of them.
No-one heard their laughter, until it was too late.
"And this… This is what will challenge our superiority?" Said Glendale to his fellows with a grin.
They noticed now.
The squabbling started to slow, the hubbub started to quiet. They all turned to face the screen.
"You people come together with one thing in mind… Standing in the way of progress. In the way of change. We’ve listened to it all, and there were moments where we were actually concerned – the idea that you would all band together to drive us out? That would have been a prospect terrifying to behold." Said Glendale, petting his faithful Scotty dog, Ceberus, as he spoke. The dog merely growled. "But as soon as we saw the potential in your coming together, we saw it fade away – you’re all too wrapped up in your personal squabbles to ever have the chance to come between us. You’re all so concerned with being better than one another that you would never come together on the same page – that is why we are different. That is why we’re better than those Corporations that have come before. We’re about the collective."
"There are moments in life that truly change the face of the future." Added Rylan raising his head with superiority. "The dawning of that new Horizon will be just that – come Tuesday morning you will have tried and failed once again to topple us, and our mayor will be staring down the barrel of our gun. We will have changed the very face of this business and we will continue to do so – every time you think you’ll have our puzzle solved, we will change the pieces shake you up all over again. You will never know what’s coming… You will never know what’s next."
"And just when you think its safe,” added Omerod between sips of coffee, “when you think that we have everything we want, and for a time you’ll all be left to your own devices, we will strike again while the iron is hottest. We will forge new paths, and new weapons to strengthen our position. We will continue to rise and we will continue to grow. We will spread our influence throughout this world until there will be no-where left you can turn. In every town and city you will see that our way is the only way, and you will fear the retribution of trying to fight against us."
"You will try to run." Added Icarus, not even looking at the screen, but through it as if to somewhere in the distance. "Because you’ll think that is the only option that you have left. But you will never outrun us… You will hide because you’ll think that it’s the only way to survive, but we will find you. You will seek refuge in like-minded individuals, but you’ll realise that there is no-one you can trust. You will be alone without the ability nor the will to fight and eventually you will give in to us… You will know that we were right all along."
Glendale stepped forward now, looking around as if he could see every single person in that room.
"Come for what we have – we implore you. We have no reason to fear your challenges – we have no reason to fear the threat that you think you pose. Because no matter what happens this Monday we will continue to grow – even now the Chaos in this room is indicative of everything we stand for. It matters not who you face – we will be victorious. We will defeat you all, one by one or all at once it makes no matter. This coming week will be the defining moment for the Engine… For the Echo… For the Origin… For the Chaos… For the Corporation… We will walk cross the new Horizon and we will have everything we’ve wanted and even more. And you will still fear us… And we will keep on turning…"
Glendale tilted his head and smiled…
"As you all know – I lost something this past week… Something very dear to me. But as they say, every cloud has a silver lining and I realised that what we lose can make us stronger. It can motivate us to do better – so I think it is time that all of you felt some measure of loss. That way, when we reach our next destination, you will all be stronger… You will provide us with more fight than your current splintered and fractured minds could provide us with."
He turned to face away from the camera for a moment, and nodded. He turned back with a smile across his face.
"That is, if you even make it to Horizons…"
And then came the fire and the screams. The Town Hall was ablaze and the screams could be heard from miles around. Stood outside of the hall, together with a camera pointed in their direction. Together they shared a smile as they looked at the beautiful colours dancing against the newly fallen snow – they each lifted a glass – except for Harry who preferred coffee.
"To new Horizons my friends… And a wonderful new year."
Each member of the UGWC roster had awoken at the same time – though few new it. Of course, Eden and Killian woke up next to one another, but neither had wanted to admit the nightmare they’d just had. Austin Alexander had considered it to be nothing more than his mind playing tricks on him. Donovan had woken up laughing because… Donovan.
Alex Stein massaged his leg – it often pained him during the night, given it was so gimpy and useless all the while trying to push the dream to the back of his mind. Travis Pierce, on the other hand, had assumed it had been a wonderful idea for a new television show… Perhaps with him as the star?
Jet checked on Chaos who swore he’d have to drink less before bed. They quipped about a strange dream but didn’t really discuss details before sharing one last drink in preparation for Horizons.
Rydell had woken convinced that it had been a sign that he was doing all the right things, whilst Jason tried to drown out the sound of Eden and Killian who had clearly decided to take advantage of waking up at the same time.
Mil Vidas wandered the streets… Confused and maskless… Trying to find a way to tell people who was a famous luchador without ruining the mystique of his character. JK’s version had been a daydream… Because Australian.
God knows what happened with Fear… Not even sure the guy sleeps.
Alan Wallace and Travis Roberts had woken up at the same time, and both moved to check on the World Heavyweight Title at the same moment – and both laughed it off as a coincidence.
Yet what each of them had in common was that they refused to talk about what they’d seen. Was it fear? Was it worry? Were they just afraid they’d look stupid having such a dream. Despite the fact that it had clearly been all in their heads, they all felt the same way – like it was far too vivid, more like a memory.
As they each arrived at the United Center, they exchanged knowing looks. They all seemed to be aware they’d had the same nightmare but refused to acknowledge it.
And then they entered their locker rooms.
On each of the walls was written the same thing – in bold spray paint. Six words, three on top of three with the top line crossed out.
The Echo Origins Corporation The Engine of Chaos
Tonight was going to be a strange night…
Somewhere far away, Samantha closed her eyes for the first time in almost a day. She had done her job… They had all got the message. As she lay her head on the pillow, she knew the truth of what she had done – what she had given to Ichabod and his friends.
They all knew now – everyone knew - the engine will always turn.
Post by Gabriel Baal on Dec 11, 2016 19:11:06 GMT -5
Let me start off by saying these last few months have been an absolute blast. I'd never expected that Baal would be the kind of character that could play well with others. But the three of you have changed that... Well... Wafer and B. I just put up with Corey.
Thank you - thank you all for making the last few months really fun. And for giving me some hilarious conversations for me to wake up to.
So... The feedz.
These all sucked balls, except mine. See you in the New Year.
No? Alright fine...
Wafe - you seemingly underestimate yourself at every turn and I have no idea why you do this. You have a turn of phrase that most can't contend with. When you set your mind on tearing someone apart you do it with a vim and vigour many others can't even begin to imagine. You took our concept and you ran with it - you made it into something really special. You managed to cover every base and do it in a way that was so Holden, despite representing all of our potential opponents.
I'm in awe of your writing - it's a pleasure to work with you.
So I've talked about how I love your creativity B. So much of what we come up with comes through you as a conduit. You're a huge part of the reason we've been so successful so far. The Ichabod character is one that I've been happy now to have been involved with for two Horizon's in a row. It's been an honour. Your RP this week was oustanding - it was an Ichabod led trip into the minds of everyone on the roster... I mean how cool is that? You did an unbelievable job with our Theme...
"I'm in your head, that's true," Ichabod stands up as if to leave, "but why should that mean that I'm not real?"
Quoting Dumbledore FTW.
"Oh look... It's Quoriey..."
We've been friends a long, long time. I came back to doing this to RP with my friends. But then Ad basically fucking retired (pussy) and I had to make do with you.
Alright, enough hazing. From day one we said we'd work together - because we never really did before. Despite our friendship, we'd always been in different places, or we'd been retired like bitches. I'm glad I'll be able to look back on this time when I'm done and say I worked with you. And that Ad punked out on us. The dick.
Anyway... As always, your RP was sub par and you dragged us down... What? Fine...
You're an incredibly talented writer with a creative mind. When life doesn't get in the way you write vastly underated pieces that should be apprecaited way more. You know I've been frustrated by some of your scores since you've gotten here, and it would be justice if you were the one of us who managed to win the big one for the Engine. This week. was outstanding. It was difficult to put a creative spin on our theme given the narrow genre, but like B and Wafe, you did an outstanding job of being original. The locker room, the doors... The idea that we could get trapped in other people's minds. It was so well done and well thought out that for a few moments I wondered if we'd ever get out.
This was outstanding man. They all were - and I can honestly say, I'm proud to say I'm part of the Engine.
Now we keep on turning...
Current:
Former:
2 x World Heavyweight Champion 2 x Cross Hemisphere Champion 1 x Chaos Champion 3 x Cooperative Champion 1 x (And First Undefeated) Conquest Champion 1 x Global Challenge Winner 1 x Massive Melee Winner 1 x Lord of Trios Winner
Post by Rogan MacLean on Dec 13, 2016 11:11:35 GMT -5
When we first made this faction, it was questioned by many, including ourselves. But the chemistry between the four of us is just amazing. We not only see each other as equals in character, but out of character as well. Everytime we brainstorm ideas, it's not the same person coming up with them over and over again. The four of us contribute to this group equally.
Reading each of these RPs and knowing what our idea was, it was just neat to see how we all did something different with it, without even really discussing which direction each of us were going. I'm very proud of being part of this group, and I think the party's just begun, fellas.
Post by Austin Alexander on Dec 13, 2016 19:31:00 GMT -5
Okay, first things first Mike/Cory... Feck you both!
Now, that this is off my chest.... Your four have come in week in and week out, I questioned who the weakest link of the stable was, but the above has proven you Four are meant to be together kicking asses and taking names. The above was as simply put Fucking amazing! I enjoyed everything from beginning to end, and I pray in 2017 we (the five of us) meet and I get the honor to work with you guys again. I am beyond speechless
Post by Holden Orson on Dec 13, 2016 22:57:26 GMT -5
So catching up in my reading, I wanted to start here since you guys all spoke to me about mine. 3 epic quality roleplays I just read.
Mike - The story telling and almost parody of each person was wonderful. You did well making it a standalone story as well, really good work. You painted EOC as the people we all wanna be. Then the ending with Samantha, good stuff. But Larry is t a stupid name. Fuck you.
Korey - Your dream corridor concept flowed really well. We moved at a good pace through the dreams and without dwelling on any particular dream you displayed what would really be a nightmare for each person. The chaos dream hit me in the feels. Great job man.
B - You didn't do a sandwich one, so I didn't like it. Terrible. Horrible. You play Yahtzee and don't even win. Okay so I liked the part where Eden hit her head on the windshield. And the part where fear resolved to be unchanging. And the part where the was a rocket launched at a rocket ship after the DT reference. Okay it liked it all. Dammit.
It's been one of my best experiences in efedding as a part of this group, and I've been feeding for the better part of 20 years. I thought I had killed my character after resolving things with vain and I struggled to find that same motivation since.
We're in a group of the best remaining efedders out there and it's a privilege to work with all of you (I'm talking the whole fed here). The EOC seems to have been a motivational group for several writers and I'm just as glad to be a part of it as I am that the community seems to like it.
Here's to wonderful 2017!
Except for Chad. Fuck Chad.
3 x International Jan Wnęk Cup winner (current) 2 x Akeem the African Dream look alike contest runner-up 4 x UGWC After-Hours Costume Party Winner (current)
Okay, first things first Mike/Cory... Feck you both!
Now, that this is off my chest.... Your four have come in week in and week out, I questioned who the weakest link of the stable was, but the above has proven you Four are meant to be together kicking asses and taking names. The above was as simply put Fucking amazing! I enjoyed everything from beginning to end, and I pray in 2017 we (the five of us) meet and I get the honor to work with you guys again. I am beyond speechless
You never have to apologize for cursing Mike or Querie. I was happy to get to know your character before horizons. I felt like I was doing you an injustice not getting to read everything recently but after catching up, I really look forward to continued work with you and watching AA develop. Thanks for the kind words.
3 x International Jan Wnęk Cup winner (current) 2 x Akeem the African Dream look alike contest runner-up 4 x UGWC After-Hours Costume Party Winner (current)
My god. This was probably the most glorious piece I've ever seen. It was fantastic and made me laugh and shout with anger.
But it is indeed inaccurate. I would never short time a dip like that
I never handled dip well. I could only short time it lol. I'm glad the peices were enjoyable!
3 x International Jan Wnęk Cup winner (current) 2 x Akeem the African Dream look alike contest runner-up 4 x UGWC After-Hours Costume Party Winner (current)
3 x International Jan Wnęk Cup winner (current) 2 x Akeem the African Dream look alike contest runner-up 4 x UGWC After-Hours Costume Party Winner (current)
Awww, I've missed this since I've been irrelevant.
Thanks Wafe.
2018 Hall of Fame Inductee OWF PDA Champion (1x) OWF Tag Champion (1x - w/Meyhu) 2015 Pool of Blood Co-Winner Chaos Champion (1x) Cooperative Champion (3x - 1 w/Jez; 1 w/Cyp; 1 w/Somers) 2013 "In Your Hands" Battle Royal winner 13 Title Reigns in career
