Necron, The Grim Harvester

[Harvey the Grim]

Necron, the Grim Harvester


Hometown: Steel City, USA (note: fictional city )


Entrance theme: Everything Is Temporary by Those Poor Bastards


Height: 7"1


Weight: 325 lbs.


Fighting style: Brawler, Powerhouse, Hardcore, Submission


In Ring Tactics/Behavior:


Necron is a very gifted striker, using his height, reach and weight to devastating effect. In the ring, he flattens his adversaries with huge slams, flings all but the largest opponents around like ragdolls, tossing them against the ropes or into the corners, where he proceeds to tenderize the meat of their flesh with hellacious punches and savage kicks. A downed enemy is rarely given time to collect his thoughts before Necron is upon him, stomping, kicking, beating, biting, grabbing and twisting limbs, like pulling the wings off flies. Necron's had plenty of time to develop and refine his skills in unsanctioned underground MMA cage fights, on top of his wrestling experience, and is capable of a few very well practiced submission and sleeper techniques. He's also quite capable of escaping from the few holds that his size and strength alone can't simply power through and overcome. That said though, don't expect Necron to get caught up in a old school grappling, technical wrestling session. He has no interest in the sportsmanship-like aspects of competition, in any sense of the word. He prefers brutal street warfare, focusing on the technique of simple but deadly applications of blunt trauma to the head and body of his victims. Necron will use any and every tool in his arsenal if he finds it necessary to destroy an enemy. To that end, he holds no qualms about using anything and everything to his advantage (both inside and outside the ring), has a blatant disregard for any and all rules, and derides as patently absurd the very notion of a fair fight. Necron lives for blood sport and carnage, for the visceral thrill of battle and the joy that comes only from crushing his enemies, seeing them driven before him, and hearing the lamentations of their women.


Entrance:




The lights flicker out, one by one, and darkness descends upon the arena. A funeral bells tolls, as if from a long distance away, echoing with terrible finality for the dead of Steel City, and the haunting voice of Johnny Cash tells us


"And I heard a Voice in the midst of the Four Beasts and Behold: A Pale Horse! And His Name that sat on Him, was Death; and Hell followed with Him"


The first few sinister strings of "Everything is Temporary" by Those Poor Bastards begins to play as a cold wind blows, as if from the very Night's Plutonian shores. The big screen flashes highlights of Necron nailing his finishers over his string of recent victories, Is transitions to the highlight of his performance in the Massive Melee, where we see Necron flinging everyone in the ring like ragdolls against the steel cage. The video finally fades to the disturbing highlights of his bloody war for the Chaos title at Wrestlestock, where we see his face become a crimson mask, Necron get caught completely ablaze and still fighting,  the horrified look of shock and disbelief on Le Bord Di Dieu's face, and the final image, confident smile of Necron. Out steps the Grim Harvester, to a single bleak spotlight. The voice of Lonesome Wyatt assures us


"Nothing that you do Will be remembered or remarked

You're just a loathsome stranger Clutching, struggling in the dark"


The gaunt grim titan slowly stalks out onto the stage, a lit coffin nail cigarette hanging from his pale cracked lips. He takes a long slow drag, blowing out tarry charnel smelling smoke into the air. He stares out at the crowds, at the viewers watching from at home, with a look of utter and stark contempt. His horrid, disfigured face is seemingly locked in a permanent scowling sneer.

Necron descends to ringside, his baleful glare of contempt falling on everyone and everything his cold dead eyes see. He steps up and over the ropes, sliding out of his coat and hat, before he takes one final drag on his cigarette. Necron flicks the smoldering coffin nail down to the mat. He looks up, eyes full of unspeakable hatred, and slowly points with one long bony finger out at the rest of the world. From his mouth of rotten and crooked teeth, he mouths the word "You", with all the venom and vehemence of the foulest curse. Necron then points down to the cigarette, and with sudden terrifying fierceness, savagely stomps down on it, snuffing it out with his boot.














Suggested moves:


Short arm clothesline, short arm shoulder block, throat toss, forearm club, press slam, piledriver, scoop slam toss, pendelum back breaker, stomach crusher, spinebuster, jumping armbreaker, double arm ddt, rear naked choke, guillote choke, surfboard stretch, stepover armlock, cross armbar, anklelock, heel hook, eye gouge, throat punch, western lariat, cross punch, uppercut, hook punch, toe kick, savate kick, football kick, punt kick, scissor kick, big boot.


Finishers:


The Cruelest Cut -- ((from behind, standing)) Reverse overhead press into pendelum backbreaker


Judgement Day -- ((front, standing)) Delayed spike brainbuster


The Reaper -- ((quick finisher, standing)) Short arm lariat into one handed chokeslam


Biography:


Necron is not a man, no matter what you may choose to believe otherwise. He plays at being a man, sometimes, when it suits him. Certainly, he walks and talks and even occasionally bleeds, like a living breathing man; but anything human in Necron has long since died. Where there should be some shred, some small sliver of a human soul left inside him, there is only an empty terrible dark place, and it's always hungry. Necron is nothing short of an inhuman monster, by even the most lenient and forgiving of standards. He is at best a terrifingly nihilistic sadist. He'd just as soon throat punch you as look at you, then kick you while you were down and put a cigarette out in your eye. He does the things he does for his own sick incomprehensible reasons, and he doesn't need to explain or justify himself to the likes of you.


"You're higher than a cockroach, aren't you? Try explaining yourself to one of them. An ant has no quarrel with a boot, does it? Do you think that makes any difference whatsoever to the boot? Don't ask me why. You won't understand it, believe it, or accept it anymore than the ant or the roach; and you wouldn't like the answer even if you did."


Don't expect anything less from him than out and out savagery. He adheres to an insane perversion of the darwinian evolutionary trope of survival of the fittest, compounded by a fanatical insistence that might makes right. Should you manage to defeat him, you've proven yourself worthy of survival... at least for now. But there's no telling for how long that peak position at the top of the food chain is going to last...who knows for sure? Tomorrow, maybe you'll have slipped, and fallen behind all over again. If he defeats you, if he breaks you, if he puts you in a wheelchair taking your food through a straw for the rest of your short life? It's only because you were too weak; it means you deserved everything that happened to you, and then some. He sheds no tears for his victims; remorse and sympathy are alien concepts, and absurdly laughable ones at that.


That said, Necron is not some mindless psychopath, stalking and devouring his prey out of mechanical and unthinking habit. If only it were so simple. No. The terrifying thing is that there is indeed some method to his madness. He is not an unthinking beast; on the contrary, Necron is a thinking, reasoning psychopath... even if his thinking is reprehensible and utterly unlike anything we are accustomed to dealing with in our day to day lives. Necron can be reasoned with, if only on some sick baser level. But to get through to him, to actually engage with the deviant mind behind this monster, to change his line of thought, to alter his intentions, even if only just to convince him to spare you at the expense of another... one would have to be able to walk down some very dark paths, and risk losing their soul along the way. One would have to be capable of understanding what makes this evil giant tick, and how to make the ticking stop, if only for a few moments. A feat few have ever truly managed.


To be sure, many would be master manipulators have tried to control Necron in the past, to use him to further their own nefarious ends and ulterior motives. But all too often they've made the fatal mistake of writing him off as just sheer dumb muscle, another foot soldier for their army, another pawn in their game to be used and discarded as needed. A notion Necron strangely enough has rarely if ever contradicted. Quite the opposite, in fact. Necron has even knowingly allowed certain individuals to use him in the past, for reasons only he could possibly ever know or explain; yet in the end, always it is the same story. When the men who would act as his puppeteers most need him, when his masters reach their most critcal moments of doubt, of want, of desperation, always he abandons them to meet their most assuredly terrible ends. Necron is always ultimately only out for himself, no matter what he may claim otherwise.


Looking like the ghost of a villain from some long forgotten western, Necron stands towering over even the tallest men, looming over them like the shadow of the valley of death. Underneath the worn, tattered wide brim black cowboy hat, his pale, gaunt, grim face is broken and disfigured; long stringy strands of black filthy hair hang down over his deeply set, hauntingly dead and empty steel grey eyes. Necron is dressed in a battered black work shirt, the arm sleeves having long since been ripped away for ease of movement. Over this he wears his trademark, long, black, tattered and torn western style trench coat. He wears an old black pair of jeans, and a set of filthy, mud covered old work boots. His clothes share an aged and worn decrepit appearance, looking as if they were taken off the corpse of a man long buried, and only recently exhumed. Should you manange to rummage through his pockets, you won't find anything in the way of personal identification, no drivers license, no social security card, nothing. Necron doesn't carry a wallet, you won't find so much as a dollar on his person; he doesn't even carry pocket change. The only thing you'll manage to find are a box of lucky strike matches, and his pack of personally hand rolled coffin nail cigarettes, the thick tarry smoke of which reeks of things long dead and decayed.


In Necron's presence, the very air itself feels cold and stale, like breath from a tomb, and one can't help but feel a damp chill running down their spine. His presence carries with it an almost palpable sense of malevolence and impending doom, like the unearthly still and calm before some terrible storm. His arms, legs, his whole body is covered with scars and reminders of the many terrible battles he has fought in his long and violent past. He wears them with pride, war trophies rightfully earned. Necron has some history traveling the back roads of wrestling federations, drifting from time to time between the small time places, where fewer questions are asked of his background, and promotions are more likely to push a harder edge for the fights in an effort to fill up seats. Places where things can get out of hand, where "accidents" can happen, and witnesses are more likely to be hushed up or paid to look the other way, if anyone even bothers to care. How many times do small time up and comers push themselves too hard, to draw the attention of a bigger promoter? In the hopes of seeing their name up among the big ones? How many promising young careers are cut short in their prime because of rookie mistakes? How many of those mistakes are actually "mistakes", how many "botched" moves are actually "botched" ? If some no name with stars in his eyes goes down in some backwater bingo hall, do you notice, do you care? Does anyone?


Necron has found some mainstream success on occasion, taking a spotlight in such promotions as the WoW, Netlink Wrestling Orginization, WXW, the ECWL, the OWC, etc. etc. But it wasn't until his invitation to his last known stomping grounds of Steel City, USA (which he now claims as his place or birth, though that's almost certainly a lie) by it's criminal kingpin mayor, SCWF owner and sole promoter, one "Big Daddy Diamond", that Necron found a place to truly take root. It was in the corrupt and dangerous Steel City itself that Necron's long drifting came to a sudden halt. For in this place he found a mutually beneficial arrangement with the corrupt criminal promotion owner and mayor of said Steel City itself. Necron was allowed, in fact actually encouraged to do the terrible things he does the best, and with only one caveat; so long as he worked behind the scenes (as an agent of terror and retribution) in his role as crimial enforcer for his benefactor's various criminal entrepreneurial enterprises, Necron was allowed free reign. No quetions were asked of him, no accounting of his actions was ever required. Safety regulations in Necron's many fights were routinely disregarded. The referees were paid to look the other way, and the ones who wouldn't take a bribe ended up sleeping with the fishes wearing their nice new concrete shoes. Those were the lucky ones. The unlucky ones? Well, let's just say they never found all the body parts, and leave it at that...


To all things there is a season. Eventually, an unexpected scuffle between city mayor, federation promoter, and criminal kingpin "Big Daddy Diamond" and one of the SCWF talent roster resulted in triggering a sudden freak heart attack. Diamond died at ringside before EMT's could reach him; they attempted resuscitation, but by then it was too little too late. His sudden departure left a power vacuum to be filled, both politically and in the criminal underground. This man made the trains run, this man kept the gangs in check, with his death, everything was up for grabs. No doubt deciding he had been robbed of the opportunity to see his plans to fruition, (whatever machiavellian scheme Necron had intended for the man) the loss of his patron threw Necron into a terrible rage. It took a riot squad to pull apart Necron and the man he blamed for Diamond's death. A wall of plastic shields was pushed to the breaking point trying to hold back the angry titan. News of Diamond's death swept the locker room, and all bets were off. It was pandemonium, as everyone sought their chance to settle old scores, now that the man who held authority over them was out of the way. Ringside in the arena was chaos. The locker room was in disarray. It was a riot inside and outside the ring; and it was quickly turning into a riot outside the arena too. With the kingpin dead, the criminal element so long kept in check now collectively scrambled to take what they could, now that there was a power vacuum to be filled. Things have settled since then, but only a little. The families of the victims injured in the arena successfully filed a major lawsuit against the company. SCWF went bankrupt overnight, and closed it's doors for good.


Necron, having already taken root in the violent city, chose to remain, for his own nefarious reasons. Gang violence and organized criminal warfare are the norm in Steel City today. The local police forces are incompetent, understaffed, corrupt, outnumbered and outgunned. Things seem to be heading from bad to worse as the vacuum remains to be filled. Most people would consider the place unlivable. Necron sucks that misery and finds it sweet. He thrives as never before in a city shaking itself apart, and a population at war with itself; in this urban nightmare of crime and hopeless corruption, Necron has been content to stay put. Until recently, when he happened to catch a glimpse of an old, hated familiar face on the dive bar television screen, where he was stalking the brother of one of the EMT's from that night, who he still blames for failing to resuscitate Diamond. A face from his past, an enemy still on his two feet. A rare thing indeed. And not just any face, not just from any ordinary past...the face of an enemy from Long Time Business. One of the only remaining survivors of a terrible battle that once cost Necron something very important...cost him greater and more dearly than he ever could have imagined. This was an opportunity too good to pass up. He would go, and he would fight. He would tear his way through whatever obstacles were thrown between him, and what he now seeks. A terrible reunion unlike any ever witnessed before, the likes of which may shake the very foundations of the world.


The SCWF was a rowdy and increasingly violent spectacle in of itself. It saw ever more tremendously violent confrontations on a routine basis; especially when Necron was involved. No stipulation was too crazy, no foreign object too dangerous to be allowed. Anything went, and often did. Ever hear of anywhere or anyone crazy enough to actually host a battle involving the possible use of a shotgun on a pole? Complaints fell on deaf ears, and subsequently, even the noblest most honorable fighters were forced ultimately to resort to stooping to Necron's level. For good reason too. Men have described hitting Necron as like punching a brick wall; a brick wall that punches back. He exhibits a tremendous threshold for pain, and has seemingly bottomless wells of reserves. He's taken shots that would've toppled lesser men, and kept on coming. He's even managed to overcome what should have been otherwise life threatening injuries, even survived attempts on his own cursed life.


The things he has endured and overcome are unbelievable; the things he'll do to you are unthinkable. They say that Evil always finds a way...and with Necron, it has. Over and over and over again.Which is why he still stands, to this very day.


All the more scarred.


All the more defiant.


And as unrelenting as ever.


I'd turn back if I were you; I'd turn back while I still had a chance.