Post by Xavier Cross on Oct 26, 2014 15:39:03 GMT
I'm...I'm not crazy....
I HEAR THEM SCREAMING AT ME. They're yelling at me, voices surrounding me like a mob...the people they hollar at me.
You can't do it.
Choker.
You make Mike Laszlo look consistent.
0-5
Oh and Five in big prize matches, every World Title I ever tried to wrap my fingers around, I've fallen short. Each time I reach up, I tumble back down. This is my first crack at the Imperial Title, this is my first time at the top of this mountain, and of course, I'm staring up at this asshole.
Fuckin Angel.
I'm starting to get the feeling, listening to you preach your sermons, talk to your opponents each month, in and out, in and out, and I'm supposed to be the crazy one. Though I take one look at the roster, all these gimmicks out and about, it's like fuckin Pumpkin Spice Coffee, this whole being a little off the ol' rocker.
You see, it's easy to screw me over this week Angel. You had your goons kick the tar out of me, but it seemed I got the last laugh. I mean seeing you looking like emo-cinderella on the whole carriage bullshit. It was really an adorable image, and well, maybe you've had too many pumpkin spiced donuts Angel, because....that wasn't the lightest thing, lifting you up. I know you're getting up there in age, but...no reason to let yourself go to the pudge circus and be the head clown.
Freakee would be pissed if you stole his stiche.
I mean, you all ready ripped Spike-y Poo, wasn't he billed as the God of Xtreme. I mean how many people have walked into a federation, proclaimed they are god, and walked around. I mean, I feel like if you were some tyranical omnipowerful being, Alex Jones would have a normal hair dye, and I would have been hit by lightning, and literally every Diamond in the back would be magically pregnant.
But no, you run around with a bunch of dudes, and Eddie Black, solving mysteries with your talking dog Ana Valentine. You run around giving bullshit line, after bullshit line. I'll give you one thing Angel, you're a charismatic dirty motherfucker. I mean, you used every underhanded trick in the book to be Lazslo, you finally let his girlfriend touch a man, and proved the fact.
Cleveland is for Chokers.
But I'm not Mike Laszlo, I don't have a 'code', I'm not a good guy Angel. I'm just another sick man. Now if that requires taking a razor blade down to the ring, beating the snot out of your Jesse Jackson megalomaniac ass, and pressing down the steel, as I hear your screams bellow out of that loud mouth, finally spewing something other than idiocies. That blade slowly tears away at your forehead, where many weapons have struct before, you can smell the copper first, as the warmth washes down your head...Then you feel that tingle of fear racing up your spine. What if the referee doesn't get there in time...what if I lose it...
What if that razor blade comes across your throat?
Nah, that ain't me...Not going to have a Mason St. Croix Veterans Hospital Inspired flashback.
Though I have to say, if blading doesn't work. Dig a nail out of the ring work, tuck it between my knuckles. I make sure to take careful aim, looking to hit you right on the forehead, the thin up there is thick, and it's quick to bleed. But you see it coming Angel, whether it's veteran instinct, or just pure surivival mode. You go to duck, my hand slips....I feel your eye explode under the pressure of the sharp object piercing your retina...
God of the Pirates?
There are so many ways to inflict pain, there are so many ways I can hurt you, break you, bleed you out like a stuff pig.
I know the odds are stacked against me, I know for a fact someone from the Age of X is going to try to find a way to finger pop my asshole. But....all it takes is one good swing, call it puncher's luck, to bust that goofy looking face open.
******
An alarm clock blares a screeching noise, reaching a hand out of the bed, slamming his palm down onto the button, the radio clicks on, as we see Xavier Cross roll over, onto his back, throwing the blanket down. He stares at the ceiling, a pair of pajamas cling to his lower body as he throws his feet out of bed, starting his day.
There is a darkness in the room, something he doesn't quite notice in his daze of morning-ness, the dreaded diasese that claims many american lives a year. Dragging his feet across the carpet, his arms stretch out as his body makes a weird assortment of cracks and pops, it was a worn out, beaten body, a black eye barely showed, a weird gross mix of purple and yellow, it was healing. The scars, and bruises were all part of the business, all apart of the lifestyle.
Leaning on the doorway, he stares into the bathroom. Weird shit seemed to always happen in the bathroom, and when his feet touch the cold hard floor, it sends a shiver up his spine, jolting him awake, like a cold breeze on his neck. Like most times, he steps forward, running the sink for a moment, before splashing water on his face, washing the eye boogers out from the corners, he lets out a loud lion-esc yawn, before shaking is body loose, a few more cracks and pops joins his morning orchastra.
Stumbling down to the kitchen, another shiver runs down his spine, this time as though something was watching him. Cross had never been the hyper-vigalent type, but a weird twist in his stomach told him something was different, something wasn't quite right. Rubbing at his neck, he contuines his way down the steps to scurry up something for breakfast. Opening the door into the kitchen, he looks up.
Dark hair, laying across her face, he couldn't make it out. A white night gown, covered in blood.
Cross steps back, his heart immediately racing. Gathering his composure he steps forward, holding his arm out.
"A-Are you okay? Miss...you're kind of in my breakfast hut, and you're bleeding on my nice floors..."
A strong smell of old shoes fills the air, nearly turning his stomach. As his hand is about to reach out to touch her arm. Her head snaps up, in the most unnatural way. Her face looks like a doll, but her mouth appeared to be cut open wide on each side, creating a sickening smile. Her mouth slowly opens, with each centimeter he drew, her head cranked to the left, and then the right. Until her mouth was completely open, row after row of sharp teeth lined the inside of the monster ladies mouth.
"What...the fuck lady..."
Cross stumbles backwards, nearly tripping over a chair, putting distance between himself and the woman. She doesn't make a single sound as she steps forward, slowly. He can feel the blood rushing to his head, it felt as though his heart was going to beat out of his chest. His hand scrambles, but he can't seem to run away. The porcaline eyes in her creepy face, staring down at him. It felt like he was being weighed down by an anchor at sea. Until his hands come to grip with a kitchen knife, quickly pulling it forward just as she lunges. He drives the knife right through her forehead stopping her inches away from biting his face off.
"Holy fuck! Holy fuck...."
Pushing forward, Cross shoves her backwards, expecting her to fall over dead. But the woman only staggers, shrugging the the knife in her forehead off like a fly had just flown past her. The weight quickly lifted though as Cross stumbles through the house, banging through the door, he races for an exit.
**********
It's kind of quiet right now Angel. It's all calmed down in my head...the voices aren't yelling, and I'm not mad anymore. I guess I have to thank Bobby-V for that, maybe that was really his plan all along. To calm my silly ass down, to make me focus more on what is in front of me. And I can't help but deny it, the idea of drinking the devil's water sounds so sweet.
Though I can't imagine what would feel better...
Hoisiting that title up for the first time in my life, in my career...
Taking that strap off you, Angel, the fucking legend you are.
Or the fact that Alex Jones will probably be the world's biggest dick, and get pay back for me, being the world's biggest dick. I mean fuck, Renee might be like, hey how bout some spotlight for my tall goofy looking ass. He cool though.
I guess I shouldn't get a head of myself, you are a pretty big douche Angel, but I'd be ignorant if I didn't realize, who exactly I am facing this week. A man who is capable of picking me apart, piece by bloody fucking piece. You're a legend in this business, and I may dislike you, and your little group of girl scouts, but....but...
You're a legend none the less.
You've ran through Malaki, you outsmarted Verona, you found Lazzy's weak point. You will go to any and every length to win, you disregard everyone but yourself, and you have a cult following. You are Hitler, plain and simple. But I've spend a while shining up my knee, getting it real pretty for when I hit you with some Afternoon Delight...the idea of the impact, the sound of my knee crushing your nose, hearing the cartilage slowly break, in some epic Rocky-esc slow motion. Watching your head bounce from the impact of the knee, into the turnbuckle, and back. I have a fucking hard on just thinking about it Angel...
The idea of causing you pain brings me pleasure, but I'll admit this. The idea of beating Angel, title or not, is something that goes on a resume. Something that I can hang my career on, and look forward to the end of the road, knowing that I wasn't just there, but I did something with it. I don't know how I'll be remembered, but I have a good feeling in my heart, that this...
It's not going to end tonight Angel, but it will be something I will hold close to my heart. That I will use to keep the firing in my soul, to tell my grandchildren about. To do what I have to do to carry on, whether I'm lifting the belt high for the crowd, or I'm getting my head stiched up. But I will promise you one thing.
I have nothing to lose. I have everything to gain. If I choke, I choke, but I promise you will wake up tomorrow hurting, sore, and realizing that I am a threat. You can hide behind your big words, and false bravado. But you know, I'm not coming to wrestle you Angel.
I'm coming to fight.
********
But like any good horror movie, Cross turns, and trips on his rug. His body bounces off the floor, turning to his back, he tries to crawl, but the weight comes over him once again as the woman steps into the door way, he neck craned, studying Xavier, the knife still stuck in her head. Her hand snaps forward, reaching the handle of the blade, ripping it out. But instead of blood gushing out, a black liquid oozes from the wound. If he wasn't terrified, the sight would probably cause him to vomit.
He tries to move, but the weight increasing pinning him to the floor. His arms outstretched, his legs pressed against the hard floor. It felt as though gravity had turned on him. The woman steps forward, still not making a sound, she kneels down, standing over Xavier. The smell of old shoes hits him like a brick, the liquid drips from her wound, dropping onto his face.
'This is how I die...I would have figured it would be on the toilet, holding a burger...but no, crazy drunk bitch with shark teeth going to bite my throat out...I'm coming Florida...'
Even in a embrace of Death, Cross made jokes. Closing his eyes, he waits for the end. But a gargled voice meets his ear first.
"He is coming."
His eyes open quickly, as the woman is about to pounce on his exposed throat, as the door is kicked open.
"Get off my husband you bitch!"
Before the sound of a shotgun going off, Cari Cross is standing in the doorway, clutching a sawed off shotgun, pointing it at the monsterous woman. The smoke begins to settle as the creature retreats backwards, severly wounded. The weight is lifted off Xavier, as he picks himself up.
"C-Cari?"
"Could we please hurry up, I'd rather not die again, and that is only going to hold her off for a while."
She doesn't wait for Cross to respond. Reaching out she grabs his hand, pulling him out of the door, and down the front proch steps. There is a running car, a 69 Chevelle, candy red. Alex Jones is sitting in the driver's seat watching the two run out. Cari throws the door open, shoving Xavier in first, and leaps in herself.
"Alex? What the fuck are you doing here..."
"Living out one of my fantasies, driving Mrs. Daisy...the fuck do you think I'm doing here, saving your ass!"
"Could you boys please shut up, and get out of here before we're murdered and sent straight to hell by she-bitch?"
"Well, only because you asked so nicely..."
Alex steps on the gas, turning the tires rapidly as they shoot out of the driveway, and screech onto the main road. Xavier looks at Cari, both of them breathing heavily. She doesn't make eye contact with him at first, reaching into her jacket pocket, she pulls out a hankerchief, wiping his face off.
"You got a spot on your face, Tiger..."
She smiles at him, he leans in, kissing her.
Well howdy there pardner.