Post by Caleb Lockwood on Mar 9, 2020 3:16:53 GMT
Caleb glares dead and deep into the camera, massaging his jaw and licking his lips, sitting on the floor of his latest abode with his knees to his chest. A tool shed this time, wooden, with a tin roof and racks of implements on either side. The lead pipe in his hand carries bloodstains on it, reminders of his absolute war with Dean Harper at Danger Zone a few short weeks ago. When he speaks, his voice echoes hollowly, and behind his eyes there is a sunken, empty feeling. "I told you. I told you that I was going to make sure there was no more Dean Harper. I told you that I was going to end him. I broke his body. I broke his spirit. And I showed him what the price of treachery is in my court. And now...I come for twenty-nine of you."
He taps his pipe against the palm of his hand, exhaling through his nose slowly, almost a shuddering, wheezing sound, like wind whipping through the walls of a ruined catacomb. "I am going to hurt each and every single one of you. I am going to bleed you out and make you suffer. I will make you collapse to the mats outside that ring, and I will snap each and every one of your dreams over my knee the way that I broke Dean Harper. I broke the man who had IWF fearing him. I took my blood, my sacrifice, and I poured my anger into my triumph...and my cup fucking runneth over."
Bowing his head, he clasps his hands together around the pipe in a praying motion. He begins rocking back and forth subtly, eyes closed, and rasps out again, the faint sound of rainfall audible outside his location, pattering on the roof with a characteristic metal rattle. "I don't...I don't know what else to do. I don't know what else to do except turn all of this hatred outward. Because if I let it boil inside of me, it's going to kill me. So I have to hurt you all. I have to hurt you all to save myself. And I wish that wasn't true, somewhere deep inside of me, the little part of me that can still call itself human with a straight face. But the rest of me knows that to survive, you have to make sacrifices. Even if they aren't willing."
"So come one." He looks up, sighing and blinking away any regret from his eyes that he can, which can only do so much. "Come one. Come fucking all. Steve Awesome has signed his death warrant by being the rat standing atop the smoldering Being Infamous pyre. And James? Rob? I want you to remember, as I lay my hands upon you, as I make you suffer, as I have suffered...that this is all on your shoulders. If you just hadn't gone and dug up Roberto Verona from his undisclosed location, then Dean would have never...then I would have never...your hubris caused this." Caleb points the pipe at the camera. "You caused all of this pain. You brought it upon yourselves."
"And you brought it upon them." He smiles a bit, a humorless movement of muscles, reflexive and performative more than anything. "All of the people that I'm going to hurt to get to what I want. Steve Awesome. And maybe you're okay with hurting Stevie boy right now. But I don't think you're as okay as I'm going to make you be. I think that you're going to regret it, right about the time my foot shatters those perfect fucking veneers on his teeth. Steve Awesome is the walking embodiment of celebrity culture. The excess, the narcissism, the utter lack of empathy for anyone beneath him. In a lot of ways, he's my opposite. He wallows in his self-pity. I share it with the masses. He sneers down. I scowl up. And he is the PERFECT person to demonstrate my favorite bit of philosophy on."
Caleb leans forward again, taking the pipe in both hands and squeezing it tightly. "History has shown that we get nothing from those upon the apex of the world without tearing them down from their pedestals. There are no benevolent gods. There are no benevolent kings. It all stands to put a boot upon the throat of whoever dares fucking rise up and demand better. So, if pleading and waiting on better angels don't work, you appeal to your greater demons. You rise up and smash the seat of authority. And you tear them apart. If they would starve us to feed their egos, we shred their bodies to feed our own." He smiles ferally, tapping the pipe against his palm to emphasize each beat. "If the rich mean we cannot eat, then we eat. The. RICH." He rises to his feet, unfolding from a seated position with a series of painful-sounding pops and cracks, eyes widening as he does, and leers down at the camera, haloed from behind like some sort of looming, a deep, radiating, pulsating darkness, becoming a faceless, featureless, imposing figure. "And I'm ready to feast." He rears back and kicks the camera into a stark, sharp, silent blackness.
He taps his pipe against the palm of his hand, exhaling through his nose slowly, almost a shuddering, wheezing sound, like wind whipping through the walls of a ruined catacomb. "I am going to hurt each and every single one of you. I am going to bleed you out and make you suffer. I will make you collapse to the mats outside that ring, and I will snap each and every one of your dreams over my knee the way that I broke Dean Harper. I broke the man who had IWF fearing him. I took my blood, my sacrifice, and I poured my anger into my triumph...and my cup fucking runneth over."
Bowing his head, he clasps his hands together around the pipe in a praying motion. He begins rocking back and forth subtly, eyes closed, and rasps out again, the faint sound of rainfall audible outside his location, pattering on the roof with a characteristic metal rattle. "I don't...I don't know what else to do. I don't know what else to do except turn all of this hatred outward. Because if I let it boil inside of me, it's going to kill me. So I have to hurt you all. I have to hurt you all to save myself. And I wish that wasn't true, somewhere deep inside of me, the little part of me that can still call itself human with a straight face. But the rest of me knows that to survive, you have to make sacrifices. Even if they aren't willing."
"So come one." He looks up, sighing and blinking away any regret from his eyes that he can, which can only do so much. "Come one. Come fucking all. Steve Awesome has signed his death warrant by being the rat standing atop the smoldering Being Infamous pyre. And James? Rob? I want you to remember, as I lay my hands upon you, as I make you suffer, as I have suffered...that this is all on your shoulders. If you just hadn't gone and dug up Roberto Verona from his undisclosed location, then Dean would have never...then I would have never...your hubris caused this." Caleb points the pipe at the camera. "You caused all of this pain. You brought it upon yourselves."
"And you brought it upon them." He smiles a bit, a humorless movement of muscles, reflexive and performative more than anything. "All of the people that I'm going to hurt to get to what I want. Steve Awesome. And maybe you're okay with hurting Stevie boy right now. But I don't think you're as okay as I'm going to make you be. I think that you're going to regret it, right about the time my foot shatters those perfect fucking veneers on his teeth. Steve Awesome is the walking embodiment of celebrity culture. The excess, the narcissism, the utter lack of empathy for anyone beneath him. In a lot of ways, he's my opposite. He wallows in his self-pity. I share it with the masses. He sneers down. I scowl up. And he is the PERFECT person to demonstrate my favorite bit of philosophy on."
Caleb leans forward again, taking the pipe in both hands and squeezing it tightly. "History has shown that we get nothing from those upon the apex of the world without tearing them down from their pedestals. There are no benevolent gods. There are no benevolent kings. It all stands to put a boot upon the throat of whoever dares fucking rise up and demand better. So, if pleading and waiting on better angels don't work, you appeal to your greater demons. You rise up and smash the seat of authority. And you tear them apart. If they would starve us to feed their egos, we shred their bodies to feed our own." He smiles ferally, tapping the pipe against his palm to emphasize each beat. "If the rich mean we cannot eat, then we eat. The. RICH." He rises to his feet, unfolding from a seated position with a series of painful-sounding pops and cracks, eyes widening as he does, and leers down at the camera, haloed from behind like some sort of looming, a deep, radiating, pulsating darkness, becoming a faceless, featureless, imposing figure. "And I'm ready to feast." He rears back and kicks the camera into a stark, sharp, silent blackness.
Well howdy there pardner.