Post by James Gilmore on Mar 14, 2018 19:13:21 GMT
Journal Entry #8 - “Trial By Fire, Part III”
That same evening…
”I thought I was gonna be the next item on Lindsey’s dick list…
...a lucrative one at that too.
I heard her breathin’ as she checked me out from head to to, that seductive and sex-crazed rush of air blowin’ from her lips before doin’ the deed. In her mind, I was that dude on the Fifty Shades trilogy, and she was the sweet and innocent gal with a dark and reckless side to her. It wasn’t a fun experience bein’ scoped on like that...and it made me hate her guts even more.
I got chills just thinkin' about...ya know, losin' everything I held near and dear to my heart. I wasn't a person that had a livin' breathin' soul in her eyes no more--I was her plaything, treated like nothin' more than the lowest of the low.
I felt...dehumanized.
And I wasn't strong or good enough to prevent it from happening.
I tried to think of somethin’ postive--ANYTHING--that would help ease the sense of foreboding and tension that coarsed through my body. If any ‘good’ came out of my thoughts, it’s that--as much sexual and carnal perversion she exhibited towards me--she didn’t make me her vaunted 49th. She actually got me outta that damn gurney and let me wear the robe she filched from the storage area to conceal herself, knowin’ how cold that old death chamber got durin’ winter.
It was just a mere false sense of security.
The bad news...well that’s somethin’ I really don’t wanna talk about yet have to--if not just for my own sake.
This was the trial by fire--a livin’ hell--I was about to endure...“
With Lindsey Grawn’s muscular MS-13 foot soldiers standing guard at the exit to the old Palace execution site to prevent escape, James Gilmore aced around the room slowly as she cackled with glee.
“You look like you’ve been in a war from fightin’ in them Kumite matches--not to mention you’re growin’ your hair and beard back. I’m impressed,” she intoned condescendingly, noting the Islander alum’s previously clean-cut, all-American image. “But it seems...you don’t have a Flash Drive. How can y’all manage to record everything that you’ve experienced in your life without one of ‘em?!”
“Hell would I know?! You’ve had 48 of them things yet ya couldn’t get ‘em inserted into your port properly.” he joked with a slight smirk on his mug.
”That one-liner pissed Lindsey off somethin’ fierce.
When I was a kid, I always admired former President Ronald Reagan’s penchant for droppin’ zingers like bombss onto the enemy. It made him seem more genuine than most people--myself included--yet it also upset a lot of old guard folks who’ve spouted that it wasn’t very 'presidential’ and all that jazz. Deep down...humor was always the best medicine in a world that was growin’ darker and more dangerous by the year.
No matter how clean or dirty some might call it.
She didn’t care about nothin’...except makin’ me suffer. She pulled out a shiny black object from her handbag, her sadistic grin growing wider with every moment in time. It looked like a .45-caliber pistol, but the yellow trims on the sides and the front gave it away--it was a non-lethal weapon used primarily for personal self-defense…
...that was, of course, if it was used by the RIGHT hands for that purpose.
Lindsey, however, had other ideas in mind--and they WEREN’T focused on self-protection.”
"This l’il gadget I’m showin’ off is a Taser Pulse, the newest civilian model. From up to a distance of 15 feet, it fires off a pair of probe-darts that will give you a nice, healthy jolt for up to 30 seconds per trigger pull,” she announced, brandishing her new “toy” like she was a spoiled l’il girl after opening up her presents during Christmas.
“Goin’ for the shock value huh?,” James said with a smug expression. “Not exactly the loveliest thing to do before Santa Claus visits.”
“You KNOW you’re gonna love it. The Old Man bet me two packs of Marlboro Menthol Silver Shorts that ya wouldn’t squeal after I retire for the night. With that in mind...shall we play the game together? The rules are simple: resist the torture...or cry ‘uncle!,’” Lindsey giggled, her wide, evil grin creating an aura of superiority over her former employer. “Press the Action button repeatedly to strengthen your Resistance meter; if it falls to zero, the game is over...and I win!”
”I couldn’t imagine what I was seein’. I couldn’t believe what I was hearin’.
Here I was, playin’ the role of Solid Snake--helpless to stop his adversaries from trying to make him squeal for information on where the PAL key was. Except...my heart began to sink, knowin’ the full gravity of the predicament I found myself in. Deep in her soul, Lindsey was havin’ fun, toyin’ with me with each passin’ moment in time.
As much as loved playin' my PS2, this was NOT a video game. This was as REAL as real could get.
And I made the mistake of pokin’ the bear one too many times.“
“What ‘Action’ button lady?! This ain’t Metal Gear--,” he sneered before being cut off by Lindsey as she shot at James with the taser. Within seconds, the ex-candidate fell to the concrete, screaming and convulsing in agony as his neuromuscular responses stopped on a dime. Grawn cackled with glee as she turned the safety back on to disarm the weapon. James continued to wail as he lied on the ground, powerless to put up a physical fight.
In his mind, this had gone way beyond the bounds of a “trial by fire.”
It was torture--the cruelest, darkest side of Humanity one can imagine.
“That was a TEN second jolt--get smartass with me again and I’ll leave you in motherfuckin’ agony ALL NIGHT!,” Lindsey intoned authoritatively. Ready to press on with the mind exercise, she then directed Gilmore’s attention to a small table that had three empty cans of Coca-Cola lined up in a row. “Now that I got your attention...tell me how many Coke cans do ya see on that pedestal over yonder?”
“There are three cans,” James said with a slight pause, breathing heavily as he struggled to get to his feet.
“No...there are four,” his former campaign manager responded...before turning off the safety and pulling the trigger a second time! James writhed on the ground, screaming in tremendous agony as the 20,000-plus volts of electricity coarsed through his veins.
“Poor widdle baby doll...can’t even handle a ten second jolt much less fifteen, but let’s try again,” Lindsey smiled with a tinge of perverted delight. “How many soda cans are there?”
“I told ya dudette...there are three of ‘em,” James said defiantly, refusing to crack under the enormous pressure as his old boss zapped him again--this time for the full 30 second "ride."
“FOUR MOTHERFUCKER! FOUR CANS--ARE Y'ALL THAT GODDAMN BLIND!?!,” she screamed wildly, watching with a demonic gleam as Gilmore continued to roll around the hard concrete floor, his arms and legs seizing from the repeated shocks. Lindsey cracked a sinister smirk before deciding to pull the trigger once more for good measure…
...only to discover that the taser was out of battery life.
And James breathed a sigh of relief on the deck...for he realized that the round was over.
“Awww...fuck me gently! Just as I was startin’ to have FUN!,” Lindsey cursed, stomping her stiletto heel right on James’ right hand, causing him to yelp in pain. “Well that’s enough for tonight. See y’all tomorrow mornin’...baby doll.”
Taking the taser with her--including pulling the electrobes out of Gilmore’s chest--Lindsey made her exit, followed closely by both of her hired thugs. James was left alone, shaken by the whole experience of his torture. Yet he had a sly, mischievous look to his visage as he heard the footsteps fade into the darkness.
He was crying. He was seething.
Yet he didn't give up. He didn't say “uncle.”
Yet he knew, from the bottom of his soul, that his trip through hell was only beginning.
”James Gilmore, one. Lindsey Grawn, zilch.
Boy oh boy, I could tell she was seethin’ on the inside, her brand of ‘fun’ bein’ spoiled like one of them early hacks of Game of Thrones. It was the end of the first day of my trial by fire, and as I lied there on the rack, I couldn’t help but muster a sly grin on my face. It brought me a great sense of satisfaction to know that I can stand up to a psychotic bitch like Lindsey and live to tell the tale...at least for one night.
I got to celebrate my first 'victory’ in the old death chamber by costin’ her two packs of cigarettes. It was a good night all-around.
Yet my heart began to pulsate as the next day loomed--for the trial...no, the TORTURE...was only gettin’ started...”
TO BE CONTINUED…
======
Torture.
It's one of the most difficult things in life that a dude can go through. Throughout the course of civilization itself, datin' back to the Book of Genesis, the art of torture is devised as a way to test people's limits, make victims confess while in an altered state of mind, or as a sadistic, perverse way to please the captor. It brings out the worst in people, a side of them that nobody should ever have to experience.
It makes ya feel...dehumanized, like you're nothin' else but some other dude's plaything.
On the other hand...torture has never been a really good means of makin' victims spew out information to their captors. In the end, it makes the captor beat THEMSELVES up in the mind 'cuz they can't get the effects or results they desire, and it's ultimately a useless form of control. Yet it makes me wonder one thing: why is it still practiced, even in a world where we all THINK we're all just one big, happy family.
Ya wanna know how I know so much about the subject?
It's simple really: I was a victim.
And I wasn't strong or good enough to prevent it from happenin' to me.
Some in IWF might say that...well Johnny Fuckboy, you deserve it for everything ya did within the course of 2017, and ya know what...they'd be right on the money. I wasn't healthy in the mind to prevent my soul from decayin', which led me to do certain things that I wouldn't DARE do when I was in tip-top condition.
Now this is my punishment for bein' the dickweed I was, and I fully understand that the majority of folks are in this category and will stop at nothin' 'til my ass is roasted and toasted.
On the flip side, I realize that some in IWF are thinkin' "James, you're tryin' your damndest to be someone who's redeemable," that I have the ability to rediscover what I always wanted to be. They would want to believe that, yes, I'm a really gentle dude who wouldn't hurt a fly...and they'd be right as well. Yet in a match where it's gonna be me against the world, against 29 others who want to take their spot in the Immortals, there is ONE constant that drives us all to be "the best" in this gig...
...EVERYBODY in Imperial is a tortured soul. I ain't alone on that regard.
When Spike Kane talks about dukin' it out in 129 matches, his mind is all srewed up by the fact that he's gotten his jollies off on bein' a violent man--much less the Roulette BRIDESMAID for several years in a row. When Mike Laszlo relishes on his submission win over Angel Blake, he takes great perverse delight in thinkin' that he's gonna be the man to take down the Age of Gods themselves and put the false deity outta wrestlin' for keeps! When Dean Harper says that his greatest strength is bein' head of a "family" that tortures other innocents just for pleasure...his soul is yearnin' to be that dude who was soft-spoken and generally LOVED by the people around him!
I could go on, right? But...that'd be too much for me to handle.
Point is...they just can't resist to give in to their egos in order to get what THEY want!
Here's the thing: there's a part of my soul that I don't want NO ONE to see. That's the part of me that RELISHED in bein' a dumbledore, that got over on spewin' hatred, and so on. I wish I could go back in time so I can talk some sense into that guy and, perhaps, beat the crap outta him. But I can't...I have to learn to live with THAT guy forever and ever. It's a part of livin' of livin', as Fiona would say.
Yet that don't mean I AIN'T worth nothin' except yesterday's trash.
'Cuz I will RESIST that part of my soul with every fiber of my bein'!
I want you dudes and dudettes in Imperial...TO LISTEN UP! I may not have my right eye no more, I may have grown my hair and beard back, I may sport cuts all over myself from trainin' HARDER than I've ever done before...but I'm gonna show you the part of me that everyone in the world never thought they'd get to see again. It's the part of me that has the HEART AND DESIRE to overcome tremendous odds and stand my ground. It's the part of me that has the COURAGE to step back into the ring and do the thing I love the most, which is perfectly illustrated in the tattoo I have on my forehead:
A tattoo that reads "dare to dream."
You can pile on me, you can gun for me, or you can torture me all you want--after all, my trial by fire WILL NEVER end!
Not 'til I'm the last dude standin' after 29 have fallen? Nah I'll go further than that...
...not until I'm CHAMPION OF THIS WORLD!
#D2D
That same evening…
”I thought I was gonna be the next item on Lindsey’s dick list…
...a lucrative one at that too.
I heard her breathin’ as she checked me out from head to to, that seductive and sex-crazed rush of air blowin’ from her lips before doin’ the deed. In her mind, I was that dude on the Fifty Shades trilogy, and she was the sweet and innocent gal with a dark and reckless side to her. It wasn’t a fun experience bein’ scoped on like that...and it made me hate her guts even more.
I got chills just thinkin' about...ya know, losin' everything I held near and dear to my heart. I wasn't a person that had a livin' breathin' soul in her eyes no more--I was her plaything, treated like nothin' more than the lowest of the low.
I felt...dehumanized.
And I wasn't strong or good enough to prevent it from happening.
I tried to think of somethin’ postive--ANYTHING--that would help ease the sense of foreboding and tension that coarsed through my body. If any ‘good’ came out of my thoughts, it’s that--as much sexual and carnal perversion she exhibited towards me--she didn’t make me her vaunted 49th. She actually got me outta that damn gurney and let me wear the robe she filched from the storage area to conceal herself, knowin’ how cold that old death chamber got durin’ winter.
It was just a mere false sense of security.
The bad news...well that’s somethin’ I really don’t wanna talk about yet have to--if not just for my own sake.
This was the trial by fire--a livin’ hell--I was about to endure...“
With Lindsey Grawn’s muscular MS-13 foot soldiers standing guard at the exit to the old Palace execution site to prevent escape, James Gilmore aced around the room slowly as she cackled with glee.
“You look like you’ve been in a war from fightin’ in them Kumite matches--not to mention you’re growin’ your hair and beard back. I’m impressed,” she intoned condescendingly, noting the Islander alum’s previously clean-cut, all-American image. “But it seems...you don’t have a Flash Drive. How can y’all manage to record everything that you’ve experienced in your life without one of ‘em?!”
“Hell would I know?! You’ve had 48 of them things yet ya couldn’t get ‘em inserted into your port properly.” he joked with a slight smirk on his mug.
”That one-liner pissed Lindsey off somethin’ fierce.
When I was a kid, I always admired former President Ronald Reagan’s penchant for droppin’ zingers like bombss onto the enemy. It made him seem more genuine than most people--myself included--yet it also upset a lot of old guard folks who’ve spouted that it wasn’t very 'presidential’ and all that jazz. Deep down...humor was always the best medicine in a world that was growin’ darker and more dangerous by the year.
No matter how clean or dirty some might call it.
She didn’t care about nothin’...except makin’ me suffer. She pulled out a shiny black object from her handbag, her sadistic grin growing wider with every moment in time. It looked like a .45-caliber pistol, but the yellow trims on the sides and the front gave it away--it was a non-lethal weapon used primarily for personal self-defense…
...that was, of course, if it was used by the RIGHT hands for that purpose.
Lindsey, however, had other ideas in mind--and they WEREN’T focused on self-protection.”
"This l’il gadget I’m showin’ off is a Taser Pulse, the newest civilian model. From up to a distance of 15 feet, it fires off a pair of probe-darts that will give you a nice, healthy jolt for up to 30 seconds per trigger pull,” she announced, brandishing her new “toy” like she was a spoiled l’il girl after opening up her presents during Christmas.
“Goin’ for the shock value huh?,” James said with a smug expression. “Not exactly the loveliest thing to do before Santa Claus visits.”
“You KNOW you’re gonna love it. The Old Man bet me two packs of Marlboro Menthol Silver Shorts that ya wouldn’t squeal after I retire for the night. With that in mind...shall we play the game together? The rules are simple: resist the torture...or cry ‘uncle!,’” Lindsey giggled, her wide, evil grin creating an aura of superiority over her former employer. “Press the Action button repeatedly to strengthen your Resistance meter; if it falls to zero, the game is over...and I win!”
”I couldn’t imagine what I was seein’. I couldn’t believe what I was hearin’.
Here I was, playin’ the role of Solid Snake--helpless to stop his adversaries from trying to make him squeal for information on where the PAL key was. Except...my heart began to sink, knowin’ the full gravity of the predicament I found myself in. Deep in her soul, Lindsey was havin’ fun, toyin’ with me with each passin’ moment in time.
As much as loved playin' my PS2, this was NOT a video game. This was as REAL as real could get.
And I made the mistake of pokin’ the bear one too many times.“
“What ‘Action’ button lady?! This ain’t Metal Gear--,” he sneered before being cut off by Lindsey as she shot at James with the taser. Within seconds, the ex-candidate fell to the concrete, screaming and convulsing in agony as his neuromuscular responses stopped on a dime. Grawn cackled with glee as she turned the safety back on to disarm the weapon. James continued to wail as he lied on the ground, powerless to put up a physical fight.
In his mind, this had gone way beyond the bounds of a “trial by fire.”
It was torture--the cruelest, darkest side of Humanity one can imagine.
“That was a TEN second jolt--get smartass with me again and I’ll leave you in motherfuckin’ agony ALL NIGHT!,” Lindsey intoned authoritatively. Ready to press on with the mind exercise, she then directed Gilmore’s attention to a small table that had three empty cans of Coca-Cola lined up in a row. “Now that I got your attention...tell me how many Coke cans do ya see on that pedestal over yonder?”
“There are three cans,” James said with a slight pause, breathing heavily as he struggled to get to his feet.
“No...there are four,” his former campaign manager responded...before turning off the safety and pulling the trigger a second time! James writhed on the ground, screaming in tremendous agony as the 20,000-plus volts of electricity coarsed through his veins.
“Poor widdle baby doll...can’t even handle a ten second jolt much less fifteen, but let’s try again,” Lindsey smiled with a tinge of perverted delight. “How many soda cans are there?”
“I told ya dudette...there are three of ‘em,” James said defiantly, refusing to crack under the enormous pressure as his old boss zapped him again--this time for the full 30 second "ride."
“FOUR MOTHERFUCKER! FOUR CANS--ARE Y'ALL THAT GODDAMN BLIND!?!,” she screamed wildly, watching with a demonic gleam as Gilmore continued to roll around the hard concrete floor, his arms and legs seizing from the repeated shocks. Lindsey cracked a sinister smirk before deciding to pull the trigger once more for good measure…
...only to discover that the taser was out of battery life.
And James breathed a sigh of relief on the deck...for he realized that the round was over.
“Awww...fuck me gently! Just as I was startin’ to have FUN!,” Lindsey cursed, stomping her stiletto heel right on James’ right hand, causing him to yelp in pain. “Well that’s enough for tonight. See y’all tomorrow mornin’...baby doll.”
Taking the taser with her--including pulling the electrobes out of Gilmore’s chest--Lindsey made her exit, followed closely by both of her hired thugs. James was left alone, shaken by the whole experience of his torture. Yet he had a sly, mischievous look to his visage as he heard the footsteps fade into the darkness.
He was crying. He was seething.
Yet he didn't give up. He didn't say “uncle.”
Yet he knew, from the bottom of his soul, that his trip through hell was only beginning.
”James Gilmore, one. Lindsey Grawn, zilch.
Boy oh boy, I could tell she was seethin’ on the inside, her brand of ‘fun’ bein’ spoiled like one of them early hacks of Game of Thrones. It was the end of the first day of my trial by fire, and as I lied there on the rack, I couldn’t help but muster a sly grin on my face. It brought me a great sense of satisfaction to know that I can stand up to a psychotic bitch like Lindsey and live to tell the tale...at least for one night.
I got to celebrate my first 'victory’ in the old death chamber by costin’ her two packs of cigarettes. It was a good night all-around.
Yet my heart began to pulsate as the next day loomed--for the trial...no, the TORTURE...was only gettin’ started...”
TO BE CONTINUED…
======
Torture.
It's one of the most difficult things in life that a dude can go through. Throughout the course of civilization itself, datin' back to the Book of Genesis, the art of torture is devised as a way to test people's limits, make victims confess while in an altered state of mind, or as a sadistic, perverse way to please the captor. It brings out the worst in people, a side of them that nobody should ever have to experience.
It makes ya feel...dehumanized, like you're nothin' else but some other dude's plaything.
On the other hand...torture has never been a really good means of makin' victims spew out information to their captors. In the end, it makes the captor beat THEMSELVES up in the mind 'cuz they can't get the effects or results they desire, and it's ultimately a useless form of control. Yet it makes me wonder one thing: why is it still practiced, even in a world where we all THINK we're all just one big, happy family.
Ya wanna know how I know so much about the subject?
It's simple really: I was a victim.
And I wasn't strong or good enough to prevent it from happenin' to me.
Some in IWF might say that...well Johnny Fuckboy, you deserve it for everything ya did within the course of 2017, and ya know what...they'd be right on the money. I wasn't healthy in the mind to prevent my soul from decayin', which led me to do certain things that I wouldn't DARE do when I was in tip-top condition.
Now this is my punishment for bein' the dickweed I was, and I fully understand that the majority of folks are in this category and will stop at nothin' 'til my ass is roasted and toasted.
On the flip side, I realize that some in IWF are thinkin' "James, you're tryin' your damndest to be someone who's redeemable," that I have the ability to rediscover what I always wanted to be. They would want to believe that, yes, I'm a really gentle dude who wouldn't hurt a fly...and they'd be right as well. Yet in a match where it's gonna be me against the world, against 29 others who want to take their spot in the Immortals, there is ONE constant that drives us all to be "the best" in this gig...
...EVERYBODY in Imperial is a tortured soul. I ain't alone on that regard.
When Spike Kane talks about dukin' it out in 129 matches, his mind is all srewed up by the fact that he's gotten his jollies off on bein' a violent man--much less the Roulette BRIDESMAID for several years in a row. When Mike Laszlo relishes on his submission win over Angel Blake, he takes great perverse delight in thinkin' that he's gonna be the man to take down the Age of Gods themselves and put the false deity outta wrestlin' for keeps! When Dean Harper says that his greatest strength is bein' head of a "family" that tortures other innocents just for pleasure...his soul is yearnin' to be that dude who was soft-spoken and generally LOVED by the people around him!
I could go on, right? But...that'd be too much for me to handle.
Point is...they just can't resist to give in to their egos in order to get what THEY want!
Here's the thing: there's a part of my soul that I don't want NO ONE to see. That's the part of me that RELISHED in bein' a dumbledore, that got over on spewin' hatred, and so on. I wish I could go back in time so I can talk some sense into that guy and, perhaps, beat the crap outta him. But I can't...I have to learn to live with THAT guy forever and ever. It's a part of livin' of livin', as Fiona would say.
Yet that don't mean I AIN'T worth nothin' except yesterday's trash.
'Cuz I will RESIST that part of my soul with every fiber of my bein'!
I want you dudes and dudettes in Imperial...TO LISTEN UP! I may not have my right eye no more, I may have grown my hair and beard back, I may sport cuts all over myself from trainin' HARDER than I've ever done before...but I'm gonna show you the part of me that everyone in the world never thought they'd get to see again. It's the part of me that has the HEART AND DESIRE to overcome tremendous odds and stand my ground. It's the part of me that has the COURAGE to step back into the ring and do the thing I love the most, which is perfectly illustrated in the tattoo I have on my forehead:
A tattoo that reads "dare to dream."
You can pile on me, you can gun for me, or you can torture me all you want--after all, my trial by fire WILL NEVER end!
Not 'til I'm the last dude standin' after 29 have fallen? Nah I'll go further than that...
...not until I'm CHAMPION OF THIS WORLD!
#D2D
Well howdy there pardner.