Post by The Greater Evil on Feb 11, 2010 10:36:46 GMT -5
Dirge: Guess what assholes...
Dirge leans back and folds his arms behind his head, lacing his hands together and resting his head in them as a gigantic and utterly satisfied smile of victory passes across his face.
Dirge: I’m not one to toot my own horn...but I was right yet again.
A satisfied laugh escapes him as the sun breaks from the clouds behind him, castings a shining halo around the chair that he’s seated in, giving him an almost divine appearance.
Dirge: Who’s the moron now ?
Dirge: You’re looking at the newly anointed “Heart and Soul of GIW” and I’d hate to tell you all so and rub it in again...but I told you it would happen.
Dirge: Actually...I rather enjoy rubbing it in your faces...so I’ll say it again...
An expression of supreme smugness comes over his face, his eye glimmering with Machiavellian zeal.
Dirge: I win, you all collectively lose and I am the “Heart and Soul of GIW” after nearly killing the “bEdPaN iCon”, Travis Roberts. So much for him being the “Most Influential Icon in Sports Entertainment this Millennia”. I believe that title now belongs to me.
Dirge: You lose again old boy.
He moves a hand from behind his head and reaches into his desk...pulling a pink rose from inside it and lifting it to his face. He takes a long sniff of it before reaching out and placing it off camera, whether it is in anything or not is not readily apparent.
Dirge: One would think that it would get boring and tiring repeatedly proving to everyone how infinitely more intelligent that I am than the rest of you. One could surmise in fact that I would get tired of constantly proving myself right and repeatedly reasserting the fact that you are all nothing more than algae slurping, scum sucking, just crawled from the primordial ooze, lower than bottom feeding, not even genetically classified wastes of oxygen.
Dirge: If one; such as yourselves...were to think that you were anything more than that you’d all, of course, be completely wrong in that belief.
He pauses briefly.
Dirge: I absolutely live[/b] to repeatedly rub it into your slack jawed, drool spewing and glassy eyed faces. It’s like the gift that keeps on giving in fact...and now I get to repeatedly rub your faces in it like one would rub a puppy’s face in its own shit after it drops a load onto the freshly cleaned carpet.
His grin widens and he makes a grinding gesture with his left hand, putting pressure on the surface in front of him.
Dirge: How could that possibly ever get old ?
He shrugs, almost indifferently as he continues speaking, as if what he’s about to say doesn’t really bother him.
Dirge: Sure, Donovan Hastings got lucky and escaped Raenius with the Global Heavyweight Championship. The only reason that happened is because Hastings pet Referee, that useless, brain dead, ego stroking, ass kissing sycophant Owen Peterson decided to finally act like a Referee for once...and the funny thing is, he wasn’t even the OFFICIAL Referee of the match...
Dirge: Yet that highway robbery, that horrible miscarriage of justice was overlooked and allowed to stand.
He stands up from the desk and walks around to the front of it, leaning back against it so that the bright, glaring halo of the sun continues to cast its radiance about him. He picked up the Rose again, twirling it around in his hand, watching it as he does so. He doesn’t look up from it as he continues speaking.
Dirge: It’s ok though...I’ll talk to Tate about it later and see what I can do to reverse that nonsensical decision. That boy has some sense between those chubby ears of his and in time we’re going to groom him to be a force to be feared and respected in the industry. You all laugh and scoff at him, calling him “Fatty McFat Fat”, you tell him that he’s stupid and useless and that he should just roll off of a cliff and die. The Covenant doesn’t see him that way.
He looks up from the flower, his eyes smoldering with disgust and barely contained resentment.
Dirge: I[/b] don’t see him that way.
He utters to statement unequivocally, his tone utterly intolerant of any contrary point of view.
Dirge: You see, when I met Erik he was no more than a novelty act in GCW. He was this silent, glowering Russian destroyer who had no character, no charisma and no personality.
The left hand corner of his mouth pulls into a sneer of derision.
Dirge: Sort of like that clown Vladimir Ulysys...
Dirge: Only with talent.
His right eye narrows a bit as a lopsided smirk forms on his face, his comment clearly meant as a blatant insult to Ulysys as much as it is a compliment to Drugonov.
Dirge: I took that raw, unpolished and unappreciated kid and turned him into a proper weapon. I saved him from the indentured servitude of his Russian masters and turned him into one of the most technically sound ring technicians in the history of Wrestling. I turned him into a Champion. Along the way I earned not only the most reliable Tag Partner who I’ve ever had...and that’s no slight to Raenius, Chassie, Jarek Magnum, Big Kahuna or any of my brethren in The Elite Establishment, The Covenant or The Icons…but I also gained the most trusted friend I have ever had. Now, I’m not saying that the same will happen with Tate...after all, he’s a different person with a different set of skills at his disposal.
Dirge: All you had to do to have the benefit of the boy’s abilities Travis was actually treat him like a person. You couldn’t do it...
Dirge: We in The Covenant will.
His entire expression suddenly changes, reverting back to the look of smug confidence, mixed with indescribable joy and the pleasure of short term conquest and impending victory.
Dirge: It seems that I have your attention now Travis.
Dirge: It’s a shame that it took me slamming the decrepit old bag through a desk twice for it to happen...but hey..."Collateral damage", you know ?
Dirge: Incidentally Travis, it isn’t and wasn’t a shame that I slammed the fossil through her desk...that was all her fault. I warned her to stop antagonizing us and she wouldn’t listen…what we did to her was only the consequence of her own hubris and arrogance. Surely you can relate to that...
Dirge: It definitely is a trait that you two have in common.
He reaches over to his right and grabs something from the desk. It’s an expensive white vase with a dozen pink roses in it. He holds the vase up and grins viciously.
Dirge: You can be expecting a gift in a few days Travis. Never let it be said that I’m not considering of the tribulations of those who I compete against.
He places the vase back down on the desk and stands up, taking a moment to stretch before he starts to walk.
Dirge: So you and Donovan are treading down this whole “Twizted”/ “Blessed Immortality”/ “Odd Couple” path now...it gives you both something to do while having all of the immediate historical relevance of a can of rotten Spam.
He walks out of the office and smiles to his beautiful young secretary. She smiles back, showing a mouth filled with perfect white teeth as she brushes her long, dark hair from her face. He nods at her and continues walking, heading through the outer office and out into the hallway.
Dirge: Not that such a comparison isn’t appropriate where you two are concerned...and it even fits old Granny now…as she sort of looks like rotting Spam. Hell, you’re not too far behind her in that respect at the moment. Your countenance has definitely seen better days...
Dirge: Incidentally, before I beat the living shit out of you, you listed off your injuries as if it makes you some kind of hero to fight on through it. That’s nothing more than a cheap sympathy stunt to draw the intellectually and emotionally limited into the “I love Travis Roberts” camp, thereby miraculously washing away your history of larceny and puerile, self congratulatory bullshit. Trust me kid, I’ve seen it all before. If it sounds like bullshit, smells like bullshit and it’s as messy as bullshit Travis...
Dirge: There’s a better than average chance that it’s bullshit.
He walks to a staircase and pushes the door open, easily treading down them to another level. He steps out into a well lit hallway and continues walking. The hallway has a expensive wood paneling on the walls and richly carpeted floors that are immaculately clean. There are occasional heavy looking wood doors in it, although they are not marked so it’s impossible to know what’s behind them.
Dirge: You called me “Mussolini in Wrestling boots”. That’s mildly poetic…and also more than slightly insulting.
Dirge: You could have at least said “Heydrich”. Mussolini was an idiot. As you saw at “Infinity”, I am far, far from being an idiot. In fact, I played you all so well that it borders on perfect.
He continues his walk, his stride strong and confident without the appearance of being forced at all.
Dirge: I could make some cheap comment drawing an empty parallel between you and Mussolini, predicated on the “idiot” statement...but I’m smarter than that. You may be a goofball pot head who compulsively refers to himself in the third person and uses people as if they have all of the value of used toilet paper...but you’re not an idiot.
He pushes a door open and steps into the room, stopping long enough to grab a folder off of a table before turning and walking out again. He steps back out into the hallway and hands the folder off to a middle aged man in a nice suit. The man takes it without a word being spoken and disappears down the hallway.
Dirge: You clearly think that I am though, or at least that I am not as intelligent as I appear to be. In your mind the fact that I have the money and the pull to get my ends done and yet still prefer to use naked force at times somehow automatically equates to me being a charlatan. It’s an interesting assumption for you to make, and far be it for me to contradict you about it...in fact I encourage it. I can manipulate with the best of them...but nothing is as directly satisfying as feeling someone’s face crunch in when you strike it as hard as you can with your fist. Just because I enjoy one does not mean that I can’t do the other.
He resumes his walk and eventually stops at an elevator, pausing long enough to wait for the door to open and close.
Dirge: Besides...I helped lull your old bag Grandmother into a false sense of security so that she’d leave herself vulnerable to being eliminated by The Covenant. I’m comfortable with that degree of stupidity.
Dirge: You all brought it...
Dirge: It’s a good thing you’re so “smart” Travis, because if Granny is any indication...you are no Dr. Seuss.
He smirks at the analogy.
Dirge: By all means though genius...
He chuckles to himself.
Dirge: Put me in my place.
He pauses and a snarky look comes across his face...a look that most people would consider infuriating and obnoxious in fact. Again it reflects a completely smug satisfaction in the after effect of all of his planning and work...the expression one gets when one meets the payoff to a given task and was successful beyond their wildest desires in the process.
Dirge: Wait...if I’m not mistaken Travis...
Dirge: It’s a little late for that now.
He makes another satisfied shrug and continues speaking.
Dirge: Oh well...so much for grabbing opportunity by the throat and all that bull. You’ll have plenty of time to think about that as you graduate from IV fluids to sucking Jell-o through a straw before your Granny can sit there and eventually spoon feed Gerber baby food to you with a plastic spoon.
He makes a gesture of someone pushing a spoon towards his mouth as he mockingly manipulates his own jaw. After a few moments he starts laughing at the cruel humor.
Dirge: By the way...don’t think less of Chassie for her part in retiring the old bag...she is the only “good” person in The Covenant.
The seeming besmirching of his friend and teammate extinguishes the smile on his face, replacing it with a look of clear annoyance and open disgust…as if to smear her is violating something that’s otherwise sacrosanct; or in his mind should be.
Dirge: She’s also loyal...and that’s worth more than an antiquated and esoteric concept like “morality”.
The word “morality” comes out with great scorn applied to it, almost as if he’s spitting something out that causes a very bad flavor in his mouth.
Dirge: Speaking of “antiquated”, that makes a nice segway into discussing you Dredd.
The obnoxious and mocking smirk returns to his face as he changes the subject.
Dirge: Cal Raynor...“The Monster” Dredd.
He makes an exaggerated use of the “quotation marks in the air” gesture with his fingers as he says “The Monster”, rolling his eyes as he does so.
Dirge: On the surface you fit the description of a “Monster”. You’re big, you’re powerful and you’re extremely mean. You inspire fear in people…or at least misplaced intimidation…and people consider you a lot more dangerous that you really are. You see Cal; the one problem with “monsters” is that most of them are mythical.
Dirge: That includes you.
Dirge points forward and nods his head as if to accentuate the point. Shortly thereafter the elevator stops and the doors open to another long hallway; this one is white tiled floors and clean, white walls and ceilings. He steps out into it and walks down it, his footfalls echoing up and down the corridor. The corridor is so long that the other end is blanketed in very deep shadow, to the point of blacking the other end of the hall out entirely.
Dirge: I make no bones about it Cal…I’m scum. I’m an evil, vain, self aggrandizing, vicious and opportunistic bastard. I don’t lie about that to anyone, least of all myself. I’m also not ashamed of it.
Dirge: You strike me as being someone who hates who he is just because it’s what he is.
A condescending smile comes across his face.
Dirge: I understand your type. You have a propensity for violence that you use to hide your self- loathing, expressing that self hate by screwing and then beating up whores while neglecting your wife and child, who you can’t relate to or connect with because you’re so psychologically fucked up. You drown your rage in alcohol and violence because they are easy outlets that require no thought and even less courage to pursue. That doesn’t even begin to address your propensity for infantile name calling.
Dirge: “Metro-sexual fag”.
He shakes his head in such a way as to intone how childish that he finds the attempted insult to be, as if the one giving it is of an intellectual level far below his own.
Dirge: If you’re going to attempt to insult me, the least you could do is attempt to sound like you’re older than a fifteen year old who repeatedly gets rat-tailed in the balls after gym class.
He continues walking down the hall, his footfalls methodical and intentional so as to minimize the noise that they cause on the tile floor.
Dirge: I’ll accept “the most vile fucker around” though. I rather like the sound of that. It also means that you’re head isn’t resting comfortably somewhere inside your colon.
Dirge: Your assertion that I won’t get my hands dirty though...well...
He gets to the end of the hallway and stops before a large steel door. He lowers his hand onto the palm reader and waits for it to flash green before tapping a code into the keypad. The door slides open silently before him, revealing another short hallway that leads to another door, one guarded by two very large and unfriendly looking men with submachine guns.
Dirge: Tell yourself whatever you have to in order to feel superior to me.
He reaches the door and both men standing guard nod their heads at him before balling a fist and placing it over their hearts. Dirge nods his head at both men and steps to another palm reader, repeating the same process that he carried out on the previous one. Just as the previous one, this door also slides open silently. This one reveals a moderately lit room with a number of steel tables, special chairs and other various methods of interrogation. A lone steel chair that is bolted to the floor sits in the middle of the room. That chair has a lone occupant and behind him stands David Damarest with a small knife in one hand and a butchers smock over his suit. A small hammer hands from his waist and both the hammer and the knife have bloodstains on them.
Dirge: For the sake of forestalling further discussion on this Cal...yes, beating up the old bitch was business. It’s one of the first rules of successful business that you don’t issue a threat that you aren’t willing to execute. The old bag repeatedly defied The Covenant, verbally spit in our faces and flaunted her perceived superiority over us. To let her continually do that and get away with it made us look weak. She had to be dealt with and we did what was necessary. Call me a coward for that if you like. The simple fact is that such a statement of apparent “holier than thou” nobility from an ill tempered, woman beating, child neglecting, profanity spewing, alcoholic reprobate like yourself is completely hollow. It makes you a hypocrite...
Dirge: And a coward.
He walks up to the man in the chair and holds his head up, staring into his distant and haunted looking green eyes. The man’s gaze is one of a person who’s spirit has nearly broken.
Dirge: At least I take care of and provide for my family, my wife and I have a strong relationship and my children adore me. I have a family...and that includes Raenius and Chassie. What you have is a dysfunctional mess, a psychologist’s wet dream once it all explodes in your face. Just wait Cal. Your boy and wife may miss you now...in a few years your wife will hate you for neglecting and cheating on her and your son will hate you for abandoning him for his entire childhood.
Dirge: Incidentally Cal...
He picks up a blowtorch from somewhere off screen and lights it, his eyes focusing on the hot, yellow needle of flame. He leans over and places it under the prisoners nose, just low enough so that he can feel it without getting scorched.
Dirge: If I were you, I wouldn’t put the flame retardant clothing away just yet.
He stands up and holds the torch in front of the man’s face, staring into the man’s terror stricken eyes.
Dirge: The Heart and Soul of GIW has spoken.
Dirge: Now my former pupil...about Grevane...
The scene ends with a long, deep throated and loud wail of profound agony.
END
Dirge leans back and folds his arms behind his head, lacing his hands together and resting his head in them as a gigantic and utterly satisfied smile of victory passes across his face.
Dirge: I’m not one to toot my own horn...but I was right yet again.
A satisfied laugh escapes him as the sun breaks from the clouds behind him, castings a shining halo around the chair that he’s seated in, giving him an almost divine appearance.
Dirge: Who’s the moron now ?
Dirge: You’re looking at the newly anointed “Heart and Soul of GIW” and I’d hate to tell you all so and rub it in again...but I told you it would happen.
Dirge: Actually...I rather enjoy rubbing it in your faces...so I’ll say it again...
An expression of supreme smugness comes over his face, his eye glimmering with Machiavellian zeal.
Dirge: I win, you all collectively lose and I am the “Heart and Soul of GIW” after nearly killing the “bEdPaN iCon”, Travis Roberts. So much for him being the “Most Influential Icon in Sports Entertainment this Millennia”. I believe that title now belongs to me.
Dirge: You lose again old boy.
He moves a hand from behind his head and reaches into his desk...pulling a pink rose from inside it and lifting it to his face. He takes a long sniff of it before reaching out and placing it off camera, whether it is in anything or not is not readily apparent.
Dirge: One would think that it would get boring and tiring repeatedly proving to everyone how infinitely more intelligent that I am than the rest of you. One could surmise in fact that I would get tired of constantly proving myself right and repeatedly reasserting the fact that you are all nothing more than algae slurping, scum sucking, just crawled from the primordial ooze, lower than bottom feeding, not even genetically classified wastes of oxygen.
Dirge: If one; such as yourselves...were to think that you were anything more than that you’d all, of course, be completely wrong in that belief.
He pauses briefly.
Dirge: I absolutely live[/b] to repeatedly rub it into your slack jawed, drool spewing and glassy eyed faces. It’s like the gift that keeps on giving in fact...and now I get to repeatedly rub your faces in it like one would rub a puppy’s face in its own shit after it drops a load onto the freshly cleaned carpet.
His grin widens and he makes a grinding gesture with his left hand, putting pressure on the surface in front of him.
Dirge: How could that possibly ever get old ?
He shrugs, almost indifferently as he continues speaking, as if what he’s about to say doesn’t really bother him.
Dirge: Sure, Donovan Hastings got lucky and escaped Raenius with the Global Heavyweight Championship. The only reason that happened is because Hastings pet Referee, that useless, brain dead, ego stroking, ass kissing sycophant Owen Peterson decided to finally act like a Referee for once...and the funny thing is, he wasn’t even the OFFICIAL Referee of the match...
Dirge: Yet that highway robbery, that horrible miscarriage of justice was overlooked and allowed to stand.
He stands up from the desk and walks around to the front of it, leaning back against it so that the bright, glaring halo of the sun continues to cast its radiance about him. He picked up the Rose again, twirling it around in his hand, watching it as he does so. He doesn’t look up from it as he continues speaking.
Dirge: It’s ok though...I’ll talk to Tate about it later and see what I can do to reverse that nonsensical decision. That boy has some sense between those chubby ears of his and in time we’re going to groom him to be a force to be feared and respected in the industry. You all laugh and scoff at him, calling him “Fatty McFat Fat”, you tell him that he’s stupid and useless and that he should just roll off of a cliff and die. The Covenant doesn’t see him that way.
He looks up from the flower, his eyes smoldering with disgust and barely contained resentment.
Dirge: I[/b] don’t see him that way.
He utters to statement unequivocally, his tone utterly intolerant of any contrary point of view.
Dirge: You see, when I met Erik he was no more than a novelty act in GCW. He was this silent, glowering Russian destroyer who had no character, no charisma and no personality.
The left hand corner of his mouth pulls into a sneer of derision.
Dirge: Sort of like that clown Vladimir Ulysys...
Dirge: Only with talent.
His right eye narrows a bit as a lopsided smirk forms on his face, his comment clearly meant as a blatant insult to Ulysys as much as it is a compliment to Drugonov.
Dirge: I took that raw, unpolished and unappreciated kid and turned him into a proper weapon. I saved him from the indentured servitude of his Russian masters and turned him into one of the most technically sound ring technicians in the history of Wrestling. I turned him into a Champion. Along the way I earned not only the most reliable Tag Partner who I’ve ever had...and that’s no slight to Raenius, Chassie, Jarek Magnum, Big Kahuna or any of my brethren in The Elite Establishment, The Covenant or The Icons…but I also gained the most trusted friend I have ever had. Now, I’m not saying that the same will happen with Tate...after all, he’s a different person with a different set of skills at his disposal.
Dirge: All you had to do to have the benefit of the boy’s abilities Travis was actually treat him like a person. You couldn’t do it...
Dirge: We in The Covenant will.
His entire expression suddenly changes, reverting back to the look of smug confidence, mixed with indescribable joy and the pleasure of short term conquest and impending victory.
Dirge: It seems that I have your attention now Travis.
Dirge: It’s a shame that it took me slamming the decrepit old bag through a desk twice for it to happen...but hey..."Collateral damage", you know ?
Dirge: Incidentally Travis, it isn’t and wasn’t a shame that I slammed the fossil through her desk...that was all her fault. I warned her to stop antagonizing us and she wouldn’t listen…what we did to her was only the consequence of her own hubris and arrogance. Surely you can relate to that...
Dirge: It definitely is a trait that you two have in common.
He reaches over to his right and grabs something from the desk. It’s an expensive white vase with a dozen pink roses in it. He holds the vase up and grins viciously.
Dirge: You can be expecting a gift in a few days Travis. Never let it be said that I’m not considering of the tribulations of those who I compete against.
He places the vase back down on the desk and stands up, taking a moment to stretch before he starts to walk.
Dirge: So you and Donovan are treading down this whole “Twizted”/ “Blessed Immortality”/ “Odd Couple” path now...it gives you both something to do while having all of the immediate historical relevance of a can of rotten Spam.
He walks out of the office and smiles to his beautiful young secretary. She smiles back, showing a mouth filled with perfect white teeth as she brushes her long, dark hair from her face. He nods at her and continues walking, heading through the outer office and out into the hallway.
Dirge: Not that such a comparison isn’t appropriate where you two are concerned...and it even fits old Granny now…as she sort of looks like rotting Spam. Hell, you’re not too far behind her in that respect at the moment. Your countenance has definitely seen better days...
Dirge: Incidentally, before I beat the living shit out of you, you listed off your injuries as if it makes you some kind of hero to fight on through it. That’s nothing more than a cheap sympathy stunt to draw the intellectually and emotionally limited into the “I love Travis Roberts” camp, thereby miraculously washing away your history of larceny and puerile, self congratulatory bullshit. Trust me kid, I’ve seen it all before. If it sounds like bullshit, smells like bullshit and it’s as messy as bullshit Travis...
Dirge: There’s a better than average chance that it’s bullshit.
He walks to a staircase and pushes the door open, easily treading down them to another level. He steps out into a well lit hallway and continues walking. The hallway has a expensive wood paneling on the walls and richly carpeted floors that are immaculately clean. There are occasional heavy looking wood doors in it, although they are not marked so it’s impossible to know what’s behind them.
Dirge: You called me “Mussolini in Wrestling boots”. That’s mildly poetic…and also more than slightly insulting.
Dirge: You could have at least said “Heydrich”. Mussolini was an idiot. As you saw at “Infinity”, I am far, far from being an idiot. In fact, I played you all so well that it borders on perfect.
He continues his walk, his stride strong and confident without the appearance of being forced at all.
Dirge: I could make some cheap comment drawing an empty parallel between you and Mussolini, predicated on the “idiot” statement...but I’m smarter than that. You may be a goofball pot head who compulsively refers to himself in the third person and uses people as if they have all of the value of used toilet paper...but you’re not an idiot.
He pushes a door open and steps into the room, stopping long enough to grab a folder off of a table before turning and walking out again. He steps back out into the hallway and hands the folder off to a middle aged man in a nice suit. The man takes it without a word being spoken and disappears down the hallway.
Dirge: You clearly think that I am though, or at least that I am not as intelligent as I appear to be. In your mind the fact that I have the money and the pull to get my ends done and yet still prefer to use naked force at times somehow automatically equates to me being a charlatan. It’s an interesting assumption for you to make, and far be it for me to contradict you about it...in fact I encourage it. I can manipulate with the best of them...but nothing is as directly satisfying as feeling someone’s face crunch in when you strike it as hard as you can with your fist. Just because I enjoy one does not mean that I can’t do the other.
He resumes his walk and eventually stops at an elevator, pausing long enough to wait for the door to open and close.
Dirge: Besides...I helped lull your old bag Grandmother into a false sense of security so that she’d leave herself vulnerable to being eliminated by The Covenant. I’m comfortable with that degree of stupidity.
Dirge: You all brought it...
Dirge: It’s a good thing you’re so “smart” Travis, because if Granny is any indication...you are no Dr. Seuss.
He smirks at the analogy.
Dirge: By all means though genius...
He chuckles to himself.
Dirge: Put me in my place.
He pauses and a snarky look comes across his face...a look that most people would consider infuriating and obnoxious in fact. Again it reflects a completely smug satisfaction in the after effect of all of his planning and work...the expression one gets when one meets the payoff to a given task and was successful beyond their wildest desires in the process.
Dirge: Wait...if I’m not mistaken Travis...
Dirge: It’s a little late for that now.
He makes another satisfied shrug and continues speaking.
Dirge: Oh well...so much for grabbing opportunity by the throat and all that bull. You’ll have plenty of time to think about that as you graduate from IV fluids to sucking Jell-o through a straw before your Granny can sit there and eventually spoon feed Gerber baby food to you with a plastic spoon.
He makes a gesture of someone pushing a spoon towards his mouth as he mockingly manipulates his own jaw. After a few moments he starts laughing at the cruel humor.
Dirge: By the way...don’t think less of Chassie for her part in retiring the old bag...she is the only “good” person in The Covenant.
The seeming besmirching of his friend and teammate extinguishes the smile on his face, replacing it with a look of clear annoyance and open disgust…as if to smear her is violating something that’s otherwise sacrosanct; or in his mind should be.
Dirge: She’s also loyal...and that’s worth more than an antiquated and esoteric concept like “morality”.
The word “morality” comes out with great scorn applied to it, almost as if he’s spitting something out that causes a very bad flavor in his mouth.
Dirge: Speaking of “antiquated”, that makes a nice segway into discussing you Dredd.
The obnoxious and mocking smirk returns to his face as he changes the subject.
Dirge: Cal Raynor...“The Monster” Dredd.
He makes an exaggerated use of the “quotation marks in the air” gesture with his fingers as he says “The Monster”, rolling his eyes as he does so.
Dirge: On the surface you fit the description of a “Monster”. You’re big, you’re powerful and you’re extremely mean. You inspire fear in people…or at least misplaced intimidation…and people consider you a lot more dangerous that you really are. You see Cal; the one problem with “monsters” is that most of them are mythical.
Dirge: That includes you.
Dirge points forward and nods his head as if to accentuate the point. Shortly thereafter the elevator stops and the doors open to another long hallway; this one is white tiled floors and clean, white walls and ceilings. He steps out into it and walks down it, his footfalls echoing up and down the corridor. The corridor is so long that the other end is blanketed in very deep shadow, to the point of blacking the other end of the hall out entirely.
Dirge: I make no bones about it Cal…I’m scum. I’m an evil, vain, self aggrandizing, vicious and opportunistic bastard. I don’t lie about that to anyone, least of all myself. I’m also not ashamed of it.
Dirge: You strike me as being someone who hates who he is just because it’s what he is.
A condescending smile comes across his face.
Dirge: I understand your type. You have a propensity for violence that you use to hide your self- loathing, expressing that self hate by screwing and then beating up whores while neglecting your wife and child, who you can’t relate to or connect with because you’re so psychologically fucked up. You drown your rage in alcohol and violence because they are easy outlets that require no thought and even less courage to pursue. That doesn’t even begin to address your propensity for infantile name calling.
Dirge: “Metro-sexual fag”.
He shakes his head in such a way as to intone how childish that he finds the attempted insult to be, as if the one giving it is of an intellectual level far below his own.
Dirge: If you’re going to attempt to insult me, the least you could do is attempt to sound like you’re older than a fifteen year old who repeatedly gets rat-tailed in the balls after gym class.
He continues walking down the hall, his footfalls methodical and intentional so as to minimize the noise that they cause on the tile floor.
Dirge: I’ll accept “the most vile fucker around” though. I rather like the sound of that. It also means that you’re head isn’t resting comfortably somewhere inside your colon.
Dirge: Your assertion that I won’t get my hands dirty though...well...
He gets to the end of the hallway and stops before a large steel door. He lowers his hand onto the palm reader and waits for it to flash green before tapping a code into the keypad. The door slides open silently before him, revealing another short hallway that leads to another door, one guarded by two very large and unfriendly looking men with submachine guns.
Dirge: Tell yourself whatever you have to in order to feel superior to me.
He reaches the door and both men standing guard nod their heads at him before balling a fist and placing it over their hearts. Dirge nods his head at both men and steps to another palm reader, repeating the same process that he carried out on the previous one. Just as the previous one, this door also slides open silently. This one reveals a moderately lit room with a number of steel tables, special chairs and other various methods of interrogation. A lone steel chair that is bolted to the floor sits in the middle of the room. That chair has a lone occupant and behind him stands David Damarest with a small knife in one hand and a butchers smock over his suit. A small hammer hands from his waist and both the hammer and the knife have bloodstains on them.
Dirge: For the sake of forestalling further discussion on this Cal...yes, beating up the old bitch was business. It’s one of the first rules of successful business that you don’t issue a threat that you aren’t willing to execute. The old bag repeatedly defied The Covenant, verbally spit in our faces and flaunted her perceived superiority over us. To let her continually do that and get away with it made us look weak. She had to be dealt with and we did what was necessary. Call me a coward for that if you like. The simple fact is that such a statement of apparent “holier than thou” nobility from an ill tempered, woman beating, child neglecting, profanity spewing, alcoholic reprobate like yourself is completely hollow. It makes you a hypocrite...
Dirge: And a coward.
He walks up to the man in the chair and holds his head up, staring into his distant and haunted looking green eyes. The man’s gaze is one of a person who’s spirit has nearly broken.
Dirge: At least I take care of and provide for my family, my wife and I have a strong relationship and my children adore me. I have a family...and that includes Raenius and Chassie. What you have is a dysfunctional mess, a psychologist’s wet dream once it all explodes in your face. Just wait Cal. Your boy and wife may miss you now...in a few years your wife will hate you for neglecting and cheating on her and your son will hate you for abandoning him for his entire childhood.
Dirge: Incidentally Cal...
He picks up a blowtorch from somewhere off screen and lights it, his eyes focusing on the hot, yellow needle of flame. He leans over and places it under the prisoners nose, just low enough so that he can feel it without getting scorched.
Dirge: If I were you, I wouldn’t put the flame retardant clothing away just yet.
He stands up and holds the torch in front of the man’s face, staring into the man’s terror stricken eyes.
Dirge: The Heart and Soul of GIW has spoken.
Dirge: Now my former pupil...about Grevane...
The scene ends with a long, deep throated and loud wail of profound agony.
END