Post by Princess on Mar 23, 2014 15:02:15 GMT
Mr. Blake-He Dead
A Penny for the Old Guy
A Penny for the Old Guy
Howl, ye wind, and follow the men down into the dead lands so hollow. Nightmares walk and prayers go unanswered. Sharks feast, sheep are led to slaughter, and business is left unfinished.
"I've so much to do, Tom. Why did you even bother bringing me back to your office."
Because you're going to Hell, Kristoff. Because this office, overlooking the compound, is where you will make your last stand.
"Kristoff, we need to speak about the last meeting we had. I-"
"Was an asshole? Needed to be punched instead of just grabbed? Do you understand what a gigantic waste of my time this is now? I am NOT under your supervision anymore. I'm an INDEPENDENT CONTRACTOR from our new investor's ideas. So come on, fill me with the load of shit you've filled me with before."
Tom slides back into his chair, speechless. In all the years I've worked under him, I never raised my voice. In all the years, I rarely showed my frustration, my anger, my pain. The feeling of freedom is overwhelming. I am...my own man. Yet I am lost, and my soul cries out for the loss of my compass.
Don't fret, you're still under my control.
"I...I'm sorry. I just wanted to congratulate you on the opportunities you've had lately."
Jealousy doesn't become him. I see his eyes filled with the green. I know for a fact what he's longing for, and it's the opportunities I've been given when he was trying to climb to the top. I'm in the middle, he's just above me, but he's not at the top, and he is upset I found a way around, a way out. I am making more, doing more, and I am FREE! He's hollow, his soul is vacant and he's full of straw. Flammable, and I am lost without a lighter.
Burn. Just let it all burn.
"And I wanted to thank you for allowing me to take some of the credit. I'm sorry for being in your way."
He doesn't believe himself, I know. I feel his resentment for me as he raises from his chair to extend his hand. I feel the heat of the room. Flames are licking at the polyester of my pants. My tie is too tight and I choke on the air briefly.
Choke, burn. Allow yourself to succumb. You're nothing without me.
"I can accept that." I want to break his hand. I take it firmly. I feel the sweat pouring from his palm, he disgusts me. The bile rises in my throat, I want to spit venom. The Red, it fills me.
"That's all, Kristoff. It's all I need from you."
He shows me to the door. His hand is on my shoulder, soaking the Joseph A. Banks suit with his grime and filth. I will need to steam clean the jacket to get his rank out. The door is almost closed behind me, I am turning back toward the elevator to leave.
"Freak."
My feet stop. I turn my head slightly. What did I hear?
"Freak"
My fist explodes on the nearly closed door, bursting it open. Tom's eyes are fearful as he sees me come back into his office. My tie is being removed, my suit buttons are already undone as the lasers fire and rip through him, seeing all and more.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY! WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?!"
"I d-didn't say a-anything!"
He's backing up toward the window. We're on the third floor, a fall would likely break most of his bones, possibly kill him. He knows the safety glass protects him from any fall, but he looks down. I smirk hoping he's full of the fear I can smell. My nose intakes the air, flaring up and spitting fire. He can't escape as my hands grab him by the throat. He's off the ground, feet flailing in the air. The wing tip shoes are scraping the glass, leaving scuff marks and dirt.
DO IT!
His eyes are wide, Tom knows what's coming. The blow lands firmly on the side of his face, opening a cut with the edge of my knuckle against his brow. Blood drips onto his white shirt. I swing again. And again.
"DONT! YOU! CALL! ME! A! FREAK!"
One blow for every word. His body goes limp and I drop him to the ground. His breaths are labored and he coughs. He tries to reach for the intercom and my briefcase comes down hard on it, smashing it to pieces. A single look toward me knows he can't call for help.
"No...no...WHAT ARE YOU DOING!"
Yes, Kristoff. Do it.
My briefcase is swung high, before coming down on my own skull. I feel the weight and fall to my knees. Again I swing and knock myself down. I pull myself up, to the dismay of Tom, and fling at the window. My face catches a corner of the metal and a cut opens. My hands reach to the blood. I crawl to Tom, who is now back to his feet. I crawl, bleeding, up his pants. I grasp his hands.
"Don't take your frustrations on me, Tom. I didn't keep you from the board."
My word against his, no cameras, the door is now full of coworkers who hate him, seeing both of us bloodied, but me on the ground. They see the briefcase with blood on it, mine, of course. The dents from matches, they don't know were there before, make them feel he's beaten me badly. Maybe he caught himself on the way up, cut his brow, they don't care. There's no security on this floor, they need to take the elevator to get here. I have fully ruined his career, he's not going to be here anymore.
"What...what is going on? What did you do, Kristoff?"
"I didn't do anything, what did YOU do, TOM!"
Nothing like burning the scarecrow. Sanguine blood and flames.
_______________________________________
"Bob Pooler, it's about time we finally meet, isn't it? Look at yourself, spitting image of a champion. So am I, oddly enough. Well, only one of us will after this debacle that the staff seems to have decided to push us into. We are hollow champions now, Bob, unable to honorably lose our own belts to someone. Instead, look at what's coming. We "merge" or "retire" or whatever they wish to call it. It's all a bluff, a way to limit the rungs on the ladder to the top without paying any mind to the shuffling bodies scrambling at the bottom, trying to topple the whole thing over. We both know that this is a power play completely out of our control. Out of our capabilities to stop, to prevent, to combat. We're tragic heroes, both of us, whether you like to admit I am or not, I'm giving you the honorable chance to be given a bit of ego from my saying you are."
FREAK
My hands tighten around the briefcase, covered in my own blood. A few stitches in my face from the escapades earlier in the week. Nothing like being a liar, like getting someone into trouble for a thing YOU did. Right, Pooler?
"At any costs, we should fight for the limited chances we're given around here. What are you willing to do for this Invictus championship? Are you willing to lie, to cheat, to steal? Will you beat yourself and blame it on me, crying that you were injured in the contest and get me disqualified? Should I do the same to you? Or would it be better if we "fought fair and honorably"? Welcome to the dichotomy that they have pushed us both into. The enemy is not the man across the ring, but those in charge, the ones who wish to cast us as their pawns in the battle against one another. I do not take kindly to being used as a pawn. I wish not to be the one sponsored by Angel or Verona in their war against one another. To be another "victory" for someone who doesn't deserve it. I want to see them face off for this belt, not us. We EARNED our respective championships. You, the lighter, the more high-flying, the faster. While I am more skilled technically, a submissions expert, a man who has defeated the one you lost to...and his father...multiple times. I think you forgot that little thing, last week, didn't you? Or was I simply TOO MUCH A DISTRACTION for you?"
Shark at the announce table. Among those who whisper quiet and meaningless, the singular titular voice of the antagonists.
"So what do you think, Mr. Pooler? Are you sure that you can come across the dried grass, rush at me with your speed, and simply TAKE what is not yours? To take away a title that I spent months DESTROYING A MAN to earn. I made Mason LEAVE! Look at it, Pooler. I beat him so badly, he faded away. He's not even HERE ANYMORE! He's virtually retired because of the way I showed him he's just a psychotic ex-soldier one loss away from a break and coming down the ramp with an Armalite AR 10 gas-powered rifle, ready to shoot the fans, the wrestlers, the staff, and eventually...himself. He'll be another statistic, Pooler, and who MADE IT HAPPEN? ME! Do you have the fortitude to do such things? Do you have the fortitude to destroy another person's life while your own is falling apart? No, I don't believe so. I don't have a life to destroy, I have no "woman", no "man", nothing. I have few friends, fewer allies, and a library of nihilism in my skull. The world is corrupt, and full of men willing to break the weaker in order to get to the top. You've seen it first hand, you've been a part of it, but are you willing to do it BY YOURSELF? I'm so truly sorry the Empire fell, but it's merely BUSINESS. Just...
Violent men thrashing around in their cages, hollow, screaming for retribution of their souls. The simple men, the hollow men, the stuffed men.
Unbuttoning the top of my shirt, chiseled flesh begins to appear. I am carved of wood, of stone, of marble. I've worked for this physique, for the power in my bones, my strength of muscle and sinew.
FREAK
"Savor the words, Pooler, sir. Savor your own sanity as it's the only thing keeping us from becoming like those who tried to use us as pawns. We both have two shots, though. We have this, and then we have the Roulette. The winner is a champion, with a new "title", a made-up pile of shit that is meaningless until it is given meaning in a world without honor. You and I, we're far better than those fighting for the Imperial title, you know it, I know it. Ortega won't even show his face around here, Laszlo is nothing more than a cheap imitation, and Malakai is a curtain-jerking jobber who doesn't know his place. We deserve that belt, more than they do. But what do we get? We get an Invictus title, something meaningless, something new, in exchange for the ones we fought for, we strove to get, the ones we are trying to carry on a long legacy. You have less to be worried about, Pooler. Look at you, you aren't going to go down as the SHORTEST REIGNING in your belt, hell, you'll practically be tied with Bushido for the longest reign. I'll have not defended ONCE, not given a shot to do so, and have a shorter time than Xander. Shorter than Mason, than Cross. You've got yourself a nice little spot carved in history, while I am the one who is ANGRY! I am going to go down as the SHORTEST Heavyweight, the LAST Heavyweight, and by all admissions of others, the "worst". So bad, after the history of the title, that they retired it instead of give me any shot to redeem it, to redeem myself. You, pompous, upstanding, calling yourself a BIG BAD WOLF...you'll go down as nearly the best in your division. When I've been, always, the BEST pure wrestler this business has EVER known. I've shown Ace, I've shown SPIKE, I've shown EVERYONE for three long years that not a SOUL can get out of my holds without feeling the pain. I've made men tap who NEVER HAVE, who never WOULD HAVE. And yet...here it is, the truth, the truth that makes...me...so..."
Angry.
Frustrated.
FREAK
Pained.
The fist clenches, I pound my own head until I re-open my stitches. The blood, I feel the warmth and it calms me momentarily. I grab my hair, I pull, I scream. I cry
"You don't have ANY CLUE! You really DON'T! Pooler, you are NOTHING but a great wrestler, but you don't KNOW how much I NEED THIS! You don't need it bad enough. You don't want it bad enough. You'll just come in here, think I won't do EVERYTHING to win. You'll get lax, you'll lose your guard and then it'll happen.
Legs wrapped around your throat. Twisted into a noose around you. Choking the life until you pass out, tap out, or simply cry in pain until they STOP THE MATCH.
Bite the wolf, the water is warm and the sharks are circling. Blood is in the water, and business is good.
"So come at me with whatever words you wish, Mr. Pooler. Fly and I will clip your wings. Run and I will break your legs. Scream and I will silence your voice with a choke as there is NOTHING that will stop me from continuing on the path that I laid out when I beat Mason. You cannot, you WILL NOT beat me. You can't. I MUST win...because if I don't...this place will know what happens when the rabid wolf tries to one-up the shark."
FREAK!
This is the Dead Land.
This is the Cactus Land.
Cactus among the waves of the beaches. Cactus in the forest the wolf lurks.
FREAK!
"Don't you dare try to win, Pooler, you don't need it enough. You don't WANT it enough. Because, one way or another, win or lose...I will make all the voices. All the words."
FREAK! FREAK!
"SHUT UP!!!!!!"
"I've so much to do, Tom. Why did you even bother bringing me back to your office."
Because you're going to Hell, Kristoff. Because this office, overlooking the compound, is where you will make your last stand.
"Kristoff, we need to speak about the last meeting we had. I-"
"Was an asshole? Needed to be punched instead of just grabbed? Do you understand what a gigantic waste of my time this is now? I am NOT under your supervision anymore. I'm an INDEPENDENT CONTRACTOR from our new investor's ideas. So come on, fill me with the load of shit you've filled me with before."
Tom slides back into his chair, speechless. In all the years I've worked under him, I never raised my voice. In all the years, I rarely showed my frustration, my anger, my pain. The feeling of freedom is overwhelming. I am...my own man. Yet I am lost, and my soul cries out for the loss of my compass.
Don't fret, you're still under my control.
"I...I'm sorry. I just wanted to congratulate you on the opportunities you've had lately."
Jealousy doesn't become him. I see his eyes filled with the green. I know for a fact what he's longing for, and it's the opportunities I've been given when he was trying to climb to the top. I'm in the middle, he's just above me, but he's not at the top, and he is upset I found a way around, a way out. I am making more, doing more, and I am FREE! He's hollow, his soul is vacant and he's full of straw. Flammable, and I am lost without a lighter.
Burn. Just let it all burn.
"And I wanted to thank you for allowing me to take some of the credit. I'm sorry for being in your way."
He doesn't believe himself, I know. I feel his resentment for me as he raises from his chair to extend his hand. I feel the heat of the room. Flames are licking at the polyester of my pants. My tie is too tight and I choke on the air briefly.
Choke, burn. Allow yourself to succumb. You're nothing without me.
"I can accept that." I want to break his hand. I take it firmly. I feel the sweat pouring from his palm, he disgusts me. The bile rises in my throat, I want to spit venom. The Red, it fills me.
"That's all, Kristoff. It's all I need from you."
He shows me to the door. His hand is on my shoulder, soaking the Joseph A. Banks suit with his grime and filth. I will need to steam clean the jacket to get his rank out. The door is almost closed behind me, I am turning back toward the elevator to leave.
"Freak."
My feet stop. I turn my head slightly. What did I hear?
"Freak"
My fist explodes on the nearly closed door, bursting it open. Tom's eyes are fearful as he sees me come back into his office. My tie is being removed, my suit buttons are already undone as the lasers fire and rip through him, seeing all and more.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY! WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?!"
"I d-didn't say a-anything!"
He's backing up toward the window. We're on the third floor, a fall would likely break most of his bones, possibly kill him. He knows the safety glass protects him from any fall, but he looks down. I smirk hoping he's full of the fear I can smell. My nose intakes the air, flaring up and spitting fire. He can't escape as my hands grab him by the throat. He's off the ground, feet flailing in the air. The wing tip shoes are scraping the glass, leaving scuff marks and dirt.
DO IT!
His eyes are wide, Tom knows what's coming. The blow lands firmly on the side of his face, opening a cut with the edge of my knuckle against his brow. Blood drips onto his white shirt. I swing again. And again.
"DONT! YOU! CALL! ME! A! FREAK!"
One blow for every word. His body goes limp and I drop him to the ground. His breaths are labored and he coughs. He tries to reach for the intercom and my briefcase comes down hard on it, smashing it to pieces. A single look toward me knows he can't call for help.
"No...no...WHAT ARE YOU DOING!"
Yes, Kristoff. Do it.
My briefcase is swung high, before coming down on my own skull. I feel the weight and fall to my knees. Again I swing and knock myself down. I pull myself up, to the dismay of Tom, and fling at the window. My face catches a corner of the metal and a cut opens. My hands reach to the blood. I crawl to Tom, who is now back to his feet. I crawl, bleeding, up his pants. I grasp his hands.
"Don't take your frustrations on me, Tom. I didn't keep you from the board."
My word against his, no cameras, the door is now full of coworkers who hate him, seeing both of us bloodied, but me on the ground. They see the briefcase with blood on it, mine, of course. The dents from matches, they don't know were there before, make them feel he's beaten me badly. Maybe he caught himself on the way up, cut his brow, they don't care. There's no security on this floor, they need to take the elevator to get here. I have fully ruined his career, he's not going to be here anymore.
"What...what is going on? What did you do, Kristoff?"
"I didn't do anything, what did YOU do, TOM!"
Nothing like burning the scarecrow. Sanguine blood and flames.
_______________________________________
"Bob Pooler, it's about time we finally meet, isn't it? Look at yourself, spitting image of a champion. So am I, oddly enough. Well, only one of us will after this debacle that the staff seems to have decided to push us into. We are hollow champions now, Bob, unable to honorably lose our own belts to someone. Instead, look at what's coming. We "merge" or "retire" or whatever they wish to call it. It's all a bluff, a way to limit the rungs on the ladder to the top without paying any mind to the shuffling bodies scrambling at the bottom, trying to topple the whole thing over. We both know that this is a power play completely out of our control. Out of our capabilities to stop, to prevent, to combat. We're tragic heroes, both of us, whether you like to admit I am or not, I'm giving you the honorable chance to be given a bit of ego from my saying you are."
FREAK
My hands tighten around the briefcase, covered in my own blood. A few stitches in my face from the escapades earlier in the week. Nothing like being a liar, like getting someone into trouble for a thing YOU did. Right, Pooler?
"At any costs, we should fight for the limited chances we're given around here. What are you willing to do for this Invictus championship? Are you willing to lie, to cheat, to steal? Will you beat yourself and blame it on me, crying that you were injured in the contest and get me disqualified? Should I do the same to you? Or would it be better if we "fought fair and honorably"? Welcome to the dichotomy that they have pushed us both into. The enemy is not the man across the ring, but those in charge, the ones who wish to cast us as their pawns in the battle against one another. I do not take kindly to being used as a pawn. I wish not to be the one sponsored by Angel or Verona in their war against one another. To be another "victory" for someone who doesn't deserve it. I want to see them face off for this belt, not us. We EARNED our respective championships. You, the lighter, the more high-flying, the faster. While I am more skilled technically, a submissions expert, a man who has defeated the one you lost to...and his father...multiple times. I think you forgot that little thing, last week, didn't you? Or was I simply TOO MUCH A DISTRACTION for you?"
Shark at the announce table. Among those who whisper quiet and meaningless, the singular titular voice of the antagonists.
"So what do you think, Mr. Pooler? Are you sure that you can come across the dried grass, rush at me with your speed, and simply TAKE what is not yours? To take away a title that I spent months DESTROYING A MAN to earn. I made Mason LEAVE! Look at it, Pooler. I beat him so badly, he faded away. He's not even HERE ANYMORE! He's virtually retired because of the way I showed him he's just a psychotic ex-soldier one loss away from a break and coming down the ramp with an Armalite AR 10 gas-powered rifle, ready to shoot the fans, the wrestlers, the staff, and eventually...himself. He'll be another statistic, Pooler, and who MADE IT HAPPEN? ME! Do you have the fortitude to do such things? Do you have the fortitude to destroy another person's life while your own is falling apart? No, I don't believe so. I don't have a life to destroy, I have no "woman", no "man", nothing. I have few friends, fewer allies, and a library of nihilism in my skull. The world is corrupt, and full of men willing to break the weaker in order to get to the top. You've seen it first hand, you've been a part of it, but are you willing to do it BY YOURSELF? I'm so truly sorry the Empire fell, but it's merely BUSINESS. Just...
Violent men thrashing around in their cages, hollow, screaming for retribution of their souls. The simple men, the hollow men, the stuffed men.
Unbuttoning the top of my shirt, chiseled flesh begins to appear. I am carved of wood, of stone, of marble. I've worked for this physique, for the power in my bones, my strength of muscle and sinew.
FREAK
"Savor the words, Pooler, sir. Savor your own sanity as it's the only thing keeping us from becoming like those who tried to use us as pawns. We both have two shots, though. We have this, and then we have the Roulette. The winner is a champion, with a new "title", a made-up pile of shit that is meaningless until it is given meaning in a world without honor. You and I, we're far better than those fighting for the Imperial title, you know it, I know it. Ortega won't even show his face around here, Laszlo is nothing more than a cheap imitation, and Malakai is a curtain-jerking jobber who doesn't know his place. We deserve that belt, more than they do. But what do we get? We get an Invictus title, something meaningless, something new, in exchange for the ones we fought for, we strove to get, the ones we are trying to carry on a long legacy. You have less to be worried about, Pooler. Look at you, you aren't going to go down as the SHORTEST REIGNING in your belt, hell, you'll practically be tied with Bushido for the longest reign. I'll have not defended ONCE, not given a shot to do so, and have a shorter time than Xander. Shorter than Mason, than Cross. You've got yourself a nice little spot carved in history, while I am the one who is ANGRY! I am going to go down as the SHORTEST Heavyweight, the LAST Heavyweight, and by all admissions of others, the "worst". So bad, after the history of the title, that they retired it instead of give me any shot to redeem it, to redeem myself. You, pompous, upstanding, calling yourself a BIG BAD WOLF...you'll go down as nearly the best in your division. When I've been, always, the BEST pure wrestler this business has EVER known. I've shown Ace, I've shown SPIKE, I've shown EVERYONE for three long years that not a SOUL can get out of my holds without feeling the pain. I've made men tap who NEVER HAVE, who never WOULD HAVE. And yet...here it is, the truth, the truth that makes...me...so..."
Angry.
Frustrated.
FREAK
Pained.
The fist clenches, I pound my own head until I re-open my stitches. The blood, I feel the warmth and it calms me momentarily. I grab my hair, I pull, I scream. I cry
"You don't have ANY CLUE! You really DON'T! Pooler, you are NOTHING but a great wrestler, but you don't KNOW how much I NEED THIS! You don't need it bad enough. You don't want it bad enough. You'll just come in here, think I won't do EVERYTHING to win. You'll get lax, you'll lose your guard and then it'll happen.
Legs wrapped around your throat. Twisted into a noose around you. Choking the life until you pass out, tap out, or simply cry in pain until they STOP THE MATCH.
Bite the wolf, the water is warm and the sharks are circling. Blood is in the water, and business is good.
"So come at me with whatever words you wish, Mr. Pooler. Fly and I will clip your wings. Run and I will break your legs. Scream and I will silence your voice with a choke as there is NOTHING that will stop me from continuing on the path that I laid out when I beat Mason. You cannot, you WILL NOT beat me. You can't. I MUST win...because if I don't...this place will know what happens when the rabid wolf tries to one-up the shark."
FREAK!
This is the Dead Land.
This is the Cactus Land.
Cactus among the waves of the beaches. Cactus in the forest the wolf lurks.
FREAK!
"Don't you dare try to win, Pooler, you don't need it enough. You don't WANT it enough. Because, one way or another, win or lose...I will make all the voices. All the words."
FREAK! FREAK!
"SHUT UP!!!!!!"
Well howdy there pardner.