Post by Tytus Rost on Mar 24, 2024 21:46:13 GMT
The sun kissed the horizon as the cold winter air hung heavy over the small town. There weren’t many out and about at this time as Tytus Rost pulled up to the police station in his beat-up pickup truck. He parked in front of the building, the engine rumbling softly as he turned off the ignition. With a heavy sigh, he climbed out of the truck, not bothering to lock the doors, and made his way inside.
Inside the station, the air was thick with tension as Tytus approached the front desk. The officer behind the counter glanced up at him, eyeing him warily.
"I am here to pay bail for Berrick," Tytus said, his voice steady and firm.
The officer nodded curtly as he reached for a clipboard and pen. "Name?"
"Tytus Rost," he replied, unnunciating his name while handing over his ID.
After a few moments of paperwork and a wad of cash later, Tytus was directed to a nearby holding cell where Berrick was waiting. As he approached, he could see his friend sitting on a bench, his head bowed and his hands clasped tightly in his lap.
Berrick was sitting on a wooden bench, his body slumped against the wall, his face drawn and weary. His eyes, though, they lit up with relief as he saw Tytus enter the room.
"Tytus! I knew you'd come," Berrick exclaimed, his voice tinged with gratitude.
Tytus gave him a small nod, his expression unreadable. "Let's get you out of here," he said quietly.
Berrick's gaze shifted nervously to the two officers standing nearby. Tytus noticed the apprehension in his friend's eyes and filed it away for later consideration.
Once the formalities were taken care of, Berrick stood up and stretched, wincing slightly as he rubbed his sore muscles. Tytus frowned at the sight of his friend's black eye, something he knew he hadn’t had before being taken into custody. But before he could voice his concern, Berrick spoke up.
"I fell," he said quickly, “I’m such a clutz,” avoiding Tytus's gaze.
Tytus raised an eyebrow but said nothing, choosing instead to follow Berrick out of the station and into the cold morning air.
As they made their way back to the truck, Tytus couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled over him like a heavy blanket. Something didn't add up, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. He helped Berrick into the cab of the truck and fired up the engine.
Once they were on the road, Tytus turned to Berrick, his brow furrowed in concern. "What happened to your eye, Berrick?" he asked quietly.
Berrick let out a nervous chuckle, trying to brush off the question with a joke. "Oh, you know how it is, Tytus. You’re the one who used to tell me my mouth was gonna get me into trouble one of these days," he quipped, “and on a completely unrelated note, did you know that you can only tell seventeen police brutality jokes while in jail before becoming the butt of one yourself?” he added, forcing a smile.
Tytus didn't find it amusing. "Berrick, I need to know what really happened," he said, his tone serious.
Berrick sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "It's nothing, Tytus. Just a misunderstanding, I don’t want to get you all worked up" he said evasively.
Tytus knew better than to press the issue further. He could see the fear in Berrick's eyes, and he knew that whatever had happened, his friend wasn't ready to talk about it yet.
“But rest assured, now that you’re back I don’t gotta worry about these backwoods, hillbillies anymore, right?” Berrick said with a laugh. When Tytus didn’t share in the joke Berrick’s face fell into a more serious tone. “You … you’re back for a while, right?”
There was silence for a few moments as Tytus's thoughts turned to the conversation he needed to have with Berrick. He knew that he had been asked to return to the IWF and participate in the Roulette match, but he also knew that leaving Berrick alone on the farm wasn’t something either of them wanted long-term.
“The Roulette is coming, Berrick. Verona has contacted me about participating this year and … and I believe I have a chance to actually do well; perhaps win the event.”
Tytus kept his eyes on the road, but he could feel Berrick’s gaze upon him.
“But, with the way things are going with the farm right now, you are right and you have done enough, my friend. I will let Verona know that I need more time here and -”
“You know you really suck at the whole ‘guilt-trip’ thing, right? Like,” Berrick chuckles, “I could have gotten on board if you’d gone in a direction that didn’t have, oh I don’t know, EMOTIONS!”
Tytus smiled, “We Russians are not known for our ‘emotions’ as you like to say.”
“Yeah,” Berrick cut in, “well we all couldn’t be born in the coldest reaches of Siberia where there’s nothing but feeling-sicles as far as the eye can see.”
“This is true,” Tytus concedes, “but all the same, it is not fair to ask you to continue here in my place.”
“Hey, I’ve got nothing better to do for the rest of the month until my court date, so go have some fun and kick some ass for me.”
"But I'll do my best to come home in between shows. The sheep will be lambing soon, and I don't want to miss that."
Berrick nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I understand," he said quietly. "Just promise me you'll come back safe."
Tytus reached out to clap a hand on Berrick's shoulder, offering him a reassuring smile. "I promise," he said firmly.
As they pulled up to the farm, Tytus's eyes narrowed as he noticed something strange in the snow-covered yard. Boot prints, leading away from the house towards the tree line.
"Did you leave the farm last night?" Berrick asked, his voice uncharacteristically low and serious.
Tytus shook his head, his expression still. "No," he replied.
Tytus's grip tightened on the steering wheel as he stared out at the footprints in the snow, his mind racing with possibilities. Something wasn't right, and he had a feeling that they were about to find out just how wrong things could get.
The bitter cold of winter clung to the air as Tytus Rost stepped out onto the frost-covered ground of his farm. The snow crunched beneath his heavy boots as he made his way towards the old wooden barn, the chill wind biting at his exposed skin.
Inside, the barn was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a single bare light bulb hanging from the rafters. Tytus stood in the center of the dusty floor, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air as he began to speak.
"Last week, I competed in the Pick Your Poison match," Tytus began, his voice low and gravelly. "A match where six men fought for the chance to face the IWF Men's World Champion at Night of the Immortals."
He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the empty space around him. "And let me tell you, it was a battle like no other. Each man fought tooth and nail for the opportunity to climb that ladder and retrieve their briefcase."
Tytus's eyes narrowed as he remembered the fierce competition he had faced in the ring. "While each man proved that he belonged in that match, none stood against me save for one man … Allen Chaney. This man proved to be something that I have not seen in many months; a challenge," he admitted, his tone grudgingly respectful. "A man not easily intimidated by my size or speed. But in the end, I walked away with my briefcase, and he with his. There will be another opportunity for Chaney to be humbled at my hands. Trust that I will be the man to wipe the smile off the face of ‘the Comedian’ one way or another.”
He took a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. "But this week, this week I face a different kind of challenge. Logan Sky."
Tytus's voice took on a note of admiration as he spoke of his opponent. "Sky is a man who has spent many years honing his craft in smaller companies and wrestling at smaller venues."
He paused, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "But make no mistake, Sky is no pushover. Standing at 6'6" and weighing in at 240 pounds, he is a force to be reckoned with."
Tytus's gaze hardened as he spoke. "But while Sky may be a talented competitor, he is not Tytus Rost. He may have had multiple strong showings, but he has yet to face someone like me."
He took a step forward, his voice growing louder and more commanding. "I refuse to let this be the moment that Logan Sky catches his break. I refuse to let him make a name for himself at my expense."
Tytus's fists clenched tighter at his sides as he spoke, his eyes burning with determination. "This week, it's Sky. And next week, it will be the Roulette. But mark my words, I will walk out of that ring with my arm raised in victory."
With that, Tytus fell silent, the only sound the low hum of the wind outside the barn. But in his heart, he knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, he would face them head-on and emerge victorious.
Inside the station, the air was thick with tension as Tytus approached the front desk. The officer behind the counter glanced up at him, eyeing him warily.
"I am here to pay bail for Berrick," Tytus said, his voice steady and firm.
The officer nodded curtly as he reached for a clipboard and pen. "Name?"
"Tytus Rost," he replied, unnunciating his name while handing over his ID.
After a few moments of paperwork and a wad of cash later, Tytus was directed to a nearby holding cell where Berrick was waiting. As he approached, he could see his friend sitting on a bench, his head bowed and his hands clasped tightly in his lap.
Berrick was sitting on a wooden bench, his body slumped against the wall, his face drawn and weary. His eyes, though, they lit up with relief as he saw Tytus enter the room.
"Tytus! I knew you'd come," Berrick exclaimed, his voice tinged with gratitude.
Tytus gave him a small nod, his expression unreadable. "Let's get you out of here," he said quietly.
Berrick's gaze shifted nervously to the two officers standing nearby. Tytus noticed the apprehension in his friend's eyes and filed it away for later consideration.
Once the formalities were taken care of, Berrick stood up and stretched, wincing slightly as he rubbed his sore muscles. Tytus frowned at the sight of his friend's black eye, something he knew he hadn’t had before being taken into custody. But before he could voice his concern, Berrick spoke up.
"I fell," he said quickly, “I’m such a clutz,” avoiding Tytus's gaze.
Tytus raised an eyebrow but said nothing, choosing instead to follow Berrick out of the station and into the cold morning air.
As they made their way back to the truck, Tytus couldn't shake the feeling of unease that settled over him like a heavy blanket. Something didn't add up, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. He helped Berrick into the cab of the truck and fired up the engine.
Once they were on the road, Tytus turned to Berrick, his brow furrowed in concern. "What happened to your eye, Berrick?" he asked quietly.
Berrick let out a nervous chuckle, trying to brush off the question with a joke. "Oh, you know how it is, Tytus. You’re the one who used to tell me my mouth was gonna get me into trouble one of these days," he quipped, “and on a completely unrelated note, did you know that you can only tell seventeen police brutality jokes while in jail before becoming the butt of one yourself?” he added, forcing a smile.
Tytus didn't find it amusing. "Berrick, I need to know what really happened," he said, his tone serious.
Berrick sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "It's nothing, Tytus. Just a misunderstanding, I don’t want to get you all worked up" he said evasively.
Tytus knew better than to press the issue further. He could see the fear in Berrick's eyes, and he knew that whatever had happened, his friend wasn't ready to talk about it yet.
“But rest assured, now that you’re back I don’t gotta worry about these backwoods, hillbillies anymore, right?” Berrick said with a laugh. When Tytus didn’t share in the joke Berrick’s face fell into a more serious tone. “You … you’re back for a while, right?”
There was silence for a few moments as Tytus's thoughts turned to the conversation he needed to have with Berrick. He knew that he had been asked to return to the IWF and participate in the Roulette match, but he also knew that leaving Berrick alone on the farm wasn’t something either of them wanted long-term.
“The Roulette is coming, Berrick. Verona has contacted me about participating this year and … and I believe I have a chance to actually do well; perhaps win the event.”
Tytus kept his eyes on the road, but he could feel Berrick’s gaze upon him.
“But, with the way things are going with the farm right now, you are right and you have done enough, my friend. I will let Verona know that I need more time here and -”
“You know you really suck at the whole ‘guilt-trip’ thing, right? Like,” Berrick chuckles, “I could have gotten on board if you’d gone in a direction that didn’t have, oh I don’t know, EMOTIONS!”
Tytus smiled, “We Russians are not known for our ‘emotions’ as you like to say.”
“Yeah,” Berrick cut in, “well we all couldn’t be born in the coldest reaches of Siberia where there’s nothing but feeling-sicles as far as the eye can see.”
“This is true,” Tytus concedes, “but all the same, it is not fair to ask you to continue here in my place.”
“Hey, I’ve got nothing better to do for the rest of the month until my court date, so go have some fun and kick some ass for me.”
"But I'll do my best to come home in between shows. The sheep will be lambing soon, and I don't want to miss that."
Berrick nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I understand," he said quietly. "Just promise me you'll come back safe."
Tytus reached out to clap a hand on Berrick's shoulder, offering him a reassuring smile. "I promise," he said firmly.
As they pulled up to the farm, Tytus's eyes narrowed as he noticed something strange in the snow-covered yard. Boot prints, leading away from the house towards the tree line.
"Did you leave the farm last night?" Berrick asked, his voice uncharacteristically low and serious.
Tytus shook his head, his expression still. "No," he replied.
Tytus's grip tightened on the steering wheel as he stared out at the footprints in the snow, his mind racing with possibilities. Something wasn't right, and he had a feeling that they were about to find out just how wrong things could get.
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The bitter cold of winter clung to the air as Tytus Rost stepped out onto the frost-covered ground of his farm. The snow crunched beneath his heavy boots as he made his way towards the old wooden barn, the chill wind biting at his exposed skin.
Inside, the barn was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from a single bare light bulb hanging from the rafters. Tytus stood in the center of the dusty floor, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air as he began to speak.
"Last week, I competed in the Pick Your Poison match," Tytus began, his voice low and gravelly. "A match where six men fought for the chance to face the IWF Men's World Champion at Night of the Immortals."
He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the empty space around him. "And let me tell you, it was a battle like no other. Each man fought tooth and nail for the opportunity to climb that ladder and retrieve their briefcase."
Tytus's eyes narrowed as he remembered the fierce competition he had faced in the ring. "While each man proved that he belonged in that match, none stood against me save for one man … Allen Chaney. This man proved to be something that I have not seen in many months; a challenge," he admitted, his tone grudgingly respectful. "A man not easily intimidated by my size or speed. But in the end, I walked away with my briefcase, and he with his. There will be another opportunity for Chaney to be humbled at my hands. Trust that I will be the man to wipe the smile off the face of ‘the Comedian’ one way or another.”
He took a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. "But this week, this week I face a different kind of challenge. Logan Sky."
Tytus's voice took on a note of admiration as he spoke of his opponent. "Sky is a man who has spent many years honing his craft in smaller companies and wrestling at smaller venues."
He paused, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "But make no mistake, Sky is no pushover. Standing at 6'6" and weighing in at 240 pounds, he is a force to be reckoned with."
Tytus's gaze hardened as he spoke. "But while Sky may be a talented competitor, he is not Tytus Rost. He may have had multiple strong showings, but he has yet to face someone like me."
He took a step forward, his voice growing louder and more commanding. "I refuse to let this be the moment that Logan Sky catches his break. I refuse to let him make a name for himself at my expense."
Tytus's fists clenched tighter at his sides as he spoke, his eyes burning with determination. "This week, it's Sky. And next week, it will be the Roulette. But mark my words, I will walk out of that ring with my arm raised in victory."
With that, Tytus fell silent, the only sound the low hum of the wind outside the barn. But in his heart, he knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, he would face them head-on and emerge victorious.
Well howdy there pardner.