Post by Declan Prescott on Jun 30, 2010 8:43:24 GMT -5
“THIS MATCH HAS BEEN PRETTY INSANE SO FAR FOLKS! WE SAW A STEEL CHAIR AT ONE POINT! THAT WAS AN ABSOLUTELY DEVASTATING LEG LOCK THAT OUR CHAMP, DALLAS REDBLADE, HAD APPLIED TO THE CHALLENGER NOT LONG AGO! AND NOW THAT VERY CHALLENGER, PETER DAMASCUS, IS LOOKING FOR A BIG BOOT! NO!!!!!! REDBLADE CATCHES HIS LEG AND SLAMS HIM ON HIS BACK!!!! HOLY CRAP, YOU DON’T SEE STUFF LIKE THAT EVERYDAY FOLKS!!!! YOU ONLY SEE THOSE KIND OF REVERSALS IN XFWORUFFTVWXX WRESTLING!!!! WE’RE THE REAL DEAL!!!! INDEPENDENT WRESTLING AT IT‘S MOST… X-FUCKING-TREME!!!
The fans were screaming wildly as the lumbering, eye patch wielding, 6’4 figure of Redblade signalled for his finishing manoeuvre - the creatively named ‘Red Blade’. As he called for the power bomb that had put away over two dozen opponents, the safety barriers began to screech and contort because of the pressure the deranged fans were slamming into them, trying to get ever closer to their hero. The crowd had consumed the entire gymnasium floor and were all frenetically bouncing back and forth in unison, their ecstatic cheers now drowning out the sound of the commentator. At the very entrance of the building, two small teenagers, decked out from head-to-toe in Redblade merchandise, were desperately trying to gain a view of their hero.
“IT’S THE RED BLADE!!!! DAMASCUS HAS BEEN TAKEN OUT OF COMMISSION AT LAST!!!!”
“It’s about time!” one of the youngsters bellowed to the other, trying to eclipse the deafening roar echoing around the high school basketball court. “Damascus fucking sucks! Look at him lying there like a bitch!”
“Fuck yeah!” his friend screamed back. “Redblade rules!!!!”
“REDBLADE ISN’T EVEN GOING FOR THE COVER!!! THE REF HAS DECLARED THAT DAMASCUS HAS BEEN KNOCKED UNCONSCIOUS!!! HE’S GONNA NEED TO BE TAKEN TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM, WHILE OUR XFWORUFFTVWXX WORLD FAMOUS INTERNATIONAL HEAVYWEIGHT UNDIPSUTED ULTRA-MEGA SUPER AWESOME CHAMPION OF THE UNIVERSE, REDBLADE, KEEPS HIS UNDEFEATED STREAK ALIVE!!!! WHO CAN STOP THIS MONSTER OF A MAN?!?!?!”
“You coming to get pissed?” the Neanderthal known as Ozzy Destra shouted in what was humorously referred to as the ‘backstage area’.
“Fuck yeah,” Redblade spat, removing his eye patch, before wiping his face with a towel. It seemed the seven minute match had depleted his reserves of stamina. “But there better be some cooch for me!”
“You know it, brother!” Destra barked in response, before the pair began heading to the rear exit.
As they marched, their gaze met that of the seated Damascus, who was untying his boots. As he looked up, through his thick beard, tattered hair and near black eyes, the contempt he felt was too much for his vision to conceal.
“Got a problem, freak?” Redblade snorted, before splattering a large glob of mucus on Damscus’ boots.
“Not at all, boss,” Damascus grunted, before turning his attention to his gloves.
“I ain’t the boss yet,” Redblade retorted. “Not until my old man eats the dirt… and judging by the looks of that old fucker, it won’t be long. But as soon as I’m calling the shots, you’re out of here, you hear me cum eater? ’Coz you give me the fucking creeps.”
“Sorry you feel that way,” Damascus responded, still concerning himself with his gloves.
“Nah you ain’t,” the lumbering Redblade retorted, before smashing his fist without warning into the skull of Damascus. The lean, grizzled man went tumbling to the floor, though made no attempt to react. “But ya will be if you don’t sell the Red Blade again! Shit man, you’re supposed to look dead after I hit that shit on ya! And considering you already look half-fucking-dead, that should be easy for you. Fucking weirdo.”
Redblade then shook his head with disgust, before continuing to the exit. Destra followed, laughing and voicing his approval the entire way. Damascus grumbled once they were out of the building and climbed to his feet. Staring back at him was the wrinkled, severe image of Justin Devarn - the owner and promoter of XFWORUFFTVWXX.
“He’s right you know,” Devarn barked.
“About what?” Damascus inquired, with a crick of his neck. “Me being a homo or you about to bite the dust?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Devarn demanded. “You think I don’t know my son’s an asshole? You think I don’t know that a single, seven minute match had him sweating like a bloated pig, while you aren’t even breathing heavily?! You think I don’t know how putrid that spoilt brat is?! If that’s what you think, you’re even more fucked in the head than you look! I don’t care if he’s an asshole! He’s an asshole that the fans love! He’s an asshole that makes me money! You’re just some bum that I brought in off the street, out of pity. So he can do whatever the fuck he wants to you, because he’s somebody and you’re nobody! Because people adore him and can’t even stand the sight of you! You should consider yourself lucky to even be in the same ring as him! Now go help the kids pack the ring up!”
Damascus sighed and began heading back to the curtains.
“Yes, boss…”
He stared at the drizzled, decaying reflection that was his face. His thick, dark brown beard, his shaggy hair, the black contacts that stung his pupils every second they touched them. As disgusting as the putrid smell, mouldy carpet and cracking walls of the cheap motel room were, the place still seemed too luxurious for Peter Damascus. What a truly vile thing he had become?
“You could have taken all three of them, you know? Tormenting the old man would have been especially fun.”
“While I’m aware how deficient your brain is,” Damascus spat. “Even you should be able to remember the point of joining that ridiculous promotion. It’s to lay fucking low! Why exactly are you too retarded to realise that?!”
“Well, we share the same brain, you know? All my floors can be attributed to you, Professor.”
“Shut up! I’m trying to take my contacts out.”
With an agonising groan, he removed the first. His cries of torture continued, as he removed the second. Then he saw them. Though bloodshot and tender with hurt, his crystal blue eyes were finally stared back at him.
“Those eyes aren’t really yours, anymore. The contacts suit Peter Damascus much more than self-righteous blue. Or maybe I just prefer black. The emo kids are onto something with that one.”
“I had to do this,” Damascus replied. “It was the only way.”
“HA! Don’t make me laugh! You’re a joke! You gave up and ran away from everything you had ever worked to achieve! And for what?! Some ridiculous goose chase that’s proven more pointless than watching a Redblade match! You sicken me!”
“When your father, Maguire, died,” Damscus began, exiting the bathroom and heading to his gym bag. “That is, when I killed him, as I delivered that final death stroke, he was reaching into his coat. At first I assumed it was for a weapon. But once I inspected the corpse, I saw that it was something very, very different.” He inserted his hand into a side pocket, before removing a small silver object. “A single key. I’m not sure what it’s to or why he wanted to grab it. It’s impossible to know if it were to lure me into a trap or him finally accepting defeat and giving a parting gift to the victor of our war. But either way, it’ll have answers. Maguire was just like me, in more ways than one, and he wouldn’t have given me this for no reason. I’ll find what it unlocks and obtain the answers that I need.”
“Answers to what?”
“How to get rid of you.”
“Well, that sucks…”
The fans were screaming wildly as the lumbering, eye patch wielding, 6’4 figure of Redblade signalled for his finishing manoeuvre - the creatively named ‘Red Blade’. As he called for the power bomb that had put away over two dozen opponents, the safety barriers began to screech and contort because of the pressure the deranged fans were slamming into them, trying to get ever closer to their hero. The crowd had consumed the entire gymnasium floor and were all frenetically bouncing back and forth in unison, their ecstatic cheers now drowning out the sound of the commentator. At the very entrance of the building, two small teenagers, decked out from head-to-toe in Redblade merchandise, were desperately trying to gain a view of their hero.
“IT’S THE RED BLADE!!!! DAMASCUS HAS BEEN TAKEN OUT OF COMMISSION AT LAST!!!!”
“It’s about time!” one of the youngsters bellowed to the other, trying to eclipse the deafening roar echoing around the high school basketball court. “Damascus fucking sucks! Look at him lying there like a bitch!”
“Fuck yeah!” his friend screamed back. “Redblade rules!!!!”
“REDBLADE ISN’T EVEN GOING FOR THE COVER!!! THE REF HAS DECLARED THAT DAMASCUS HAS BEEN KNOCKED UNCONSCIOUS!!! HE’S GONNA NEED TO BE TAKEN TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM, WHILE OUR XFWORUFFTVWXX WORLD FAMOUS INTERNATIONAL HEAVYWEIGHT UNDIPSUTED ULTRA-MEGA SUPER AWESOME CHAMPION OF THE UNIVERSE, REDBLADE, KEEPS HIS UNDEFEATED STREAK ALIVE!!!! WHO CAN STOP THIS MONSTER OF A MAN?!?!?!”
* * * * *
“You coming to get pissed?” the Neanderthal known as Ozzy Destra shouted in what was humorously referred to as the ‘backstage area’.
“Fuck yeah,” Redblade spat, removing his eye patch, before wiping his face with a towel. It seemed the seven minute match had depleted his reserves of stamina. “But there better be some cooch for me!”
“You know it, brother!” Destra barked in response, before the pair began heading to the rear exit.
As they marched, their gaze met that of the seated Damascus, who was untying his boots. As he looked up, through his thick beard, tattered hair and near black eyes, the contempt he felt was too much for his vision to conceal.
“Got a problem, freak?” Redblade snorted, before splattering a large glob of mucus on Damscus’ boots.
“Not at all, boss,” Damascus grunted, before turning his attention to his gloves.
“I ain’t the boss yet,” Redblade retorted. “Not until my old man eats the dirt… and judging by the looks of that old fucker, it won’t be long. But as soon as I’m calling the shots, you’re out of here, you hear me cum eater? ’Coz you give me the fucking creeps.”
“Sorry you feel that way,” Damascus responded, still concerning himself with his gloves.
“Nah you ain’t,” the lumbering Redblade retorted, before smashing his fist without warning into the skull of Damascus. The lean, grizzled man went tumbling to the floor, though made no attempt to react. “But ya will be if you don’t sell the Red Blade again! Shit man, you’re supposed to look dead after I hit that shit on ya! And considering you already look half-fucking-dead, that should be easy for you. Fucking weirdo.”
Redblade then shook his head with disgust, before continuing to the exit. Destra followed, laughing and voicing his approval the entire way. Damascus grumbled once they were out of the building and climbed to his feet. Staring back at him was the wrinkled, severe image of Justin Devarn - the owner and promoter of XFWORUFFTVWXX.
“He’s right you know,” Devarn barked.
“About what?” Damascus inquired, with a crick of his neck. “Me being a homo or you about to bite the dust?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Devarn demanded. “You think I don’t know my son’s an asshole? You think I don’t know that a single, seven minute match had him sweating like a bloated pig, while you aren’t even breathing heavily?! You think I don’t know how putrid that spoilt brat is?! If that’s what you think, you’re even more fucked in the head than you look! I don’t care if he’s an asshole! He’s an asshole that the fans love! He’s an asshole that makes me money! You’re just some bum that I brought in off the street, out of pity. So he can do whatever the fuck he wants to you, because he’s somebody and you’re nobody! Because people adore him and can’t even stand the sight of you! You should consider yourself lucky to even be in the same ring as him! Now go help the kids pack the ring up!”
Damascus sighed and began heading back to the curtains.
“Yes, boss…”
* * * * *
He stared at the drizzled, decaying reflection that was his face. His thick, dark brown beard, his shaggy hair, the black contacts that stung his pupils every second they touched them. As disgusting as the putrid smell, mouldy carpet and cracking walls of the cheap motel room were, the place still seemed too luxurious for Peter Damascus. What a truly vile thing he had become?
“You could have taken all three of them, you know? Tormenting the old man would have been especially fun.”
“While I’m aware how deficient your brain is,” Damascus spat. “Even you should be able to remember the point of joining that ridiculous promotion. It’s to lay fucking low! Why exactly are you too retarded to realise that?!”
“Well, we share the same brain, you know? All my floors can be attributed to you, Professor.”
“Shut up! I’m trying to take my contacts out.”
With an agonising groan, he removed the first. His cries of torture continued, as he removed the second. Then he saw them. Though bloodshot and tender with hurt, his crystal blue eyes were finally stared back at him.
“Those eyes aren’t really yours, anymore. The contacts suit Peter Damascus much more than self-righteous blue. Or maybe I just prefer black. The emo kids are onto something with that one.”
“I had to do this,” Damascus replied. “It was the only way.”
“HA! Don’t make me laugh! You’re a joke! You gave up and ran away from everything you had ever worked to achieve! And for what?! Some ridiculous goose chase that’s proven more pointless than watching a Redblade match! You sicken me!”
“When your father, Maguire, died,” Damscus began, exiting the bathroom and heading to his gym bag. “That is, when I killed him, as I delivered that final death stroke, he was reaching into his coat. At first I assumed it was for a weapon. But once I inspected the corpse, I saw that it was something very, very different.” He inserted his hand into a side pocket, before removing a small silver object. “A single key. I’m not sure what it’s to or why he wanted to grab it. It’s impossible to know if it were to lure me into a trap or him finally accepting defeat and giving a parting gift to the victor of our war. But either way, it’ll have answers. Maguire was just like me, in more ways than one, and he wouldn’t have given me this for no reason. I’ll find what it unlocks and obtain the answers that I need.”
“Answers to what?”
“How to get rid of you.”
“Well, that sucks…”