|
Post by moonchild on Oct 16, 2019 18:10:36 GMT -5
|
|
|
Post by moonchild on Oct 16, 2019 18:13:56 GMT -5
Written by Valora
A New Alliance
Valora’s Safehouse, undisclosed location, somewhere in the Caribbean
Valora sat at one end of the table, sipping from her mojito. Next to her sat Samantha Topher. Across from them, Kronin, Lilly and Kara sat, the three of them each preferring to drink water. Kronin looks around the room. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Valora smirked. “Some people decide to buy cars or other such crap to showcase their wealth.. My money went into.. Other directions. Mudcock has a company. Nice for him. I have my own fuckin’ island. Completely off the grid. Speaking of which, Samantha.” Samantha nods. “Your phones and other electronic devices will be returned to you before you leave. I needed to make sure they couldn’t be used to track you via GPS and such. If things go well, I have some apps that I can put on your devices that will let you use them here but hide you.”
Kronin smirks. “You always were paranoid, Val.” Valora shrugged. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t all out to get you, Kronin. And look. They are, in fact, all out to get you and me both. I asked you here as a show of trust and good faith.. What the fuck else do you want from me?”
Kronin and Kara look at each other and nod before Kronin turns back to look at Valora. “We’re gonna have a little chat. No BS. No word games, no chess matches. We ask questions. You answer them. The truth. You ask questions, I answer. We need to be on the same page going forward. Let’s start off with the elephant in the room. Mudcock and McStrump accused you of being an assassin. Is that true? If so, who trained you and how did McStrump and Mudcock find out? And.. have you operated in Germany?”
Valora sighed and took a big gulp of her drink. “You know me, Kronin. I made my bones as a problem solver. Whatever title you wanna label it.. Yes, I’m an assassin Kronin. Or I was. I was trained in Krav Maga and other things by an agent of MOSSAD. I will not reveal the identity of said agent. For their protection. I received some training from a woman who was once in the CIA. I was trained by the Mexican Federal Police. Combine all of that with the fact that I went to Med school where I specialized in Psychology, Criminology, Criminal psychology and similar fields.”
Kara chimes in. “Which makes you, quite literally, the perfect criminal.” Valora smirks. “Ding, ding Kara Reinhardt. Also makes me the perfect person to fight against criminals and such. As for how Mudcock found out. Also, let’s not forget that for a time Allen Anderson had me working for him in Warhammer. Jeremiah Vastrix is allied with Mudcock. Jeremiah Vastrix has access to any record in Warhammer. Connect the fuckin’ dots. McStrump might have asked the CIA or NSA for files on me. They might have helped him, might not. Right now, I’m going to assume they know everything. Realistically, they probably don’t know about the MOSSAD.. Though anyone who watches me fight can identify Krav Maga.” Kronin nods. “Well, anyone with the right training, at any rate.”
Valora nods. “As to the other questions. I don’t believe I killed anyone you’d care about, but it’s certainly possible.” Kara chimed in. “I have a question.. How are you even standing let alone able to fight given the fact that every time I see you, you’re either drinking, fighting or preparing to fight.. Usually while drinking.”
Valora shrugs. “I find life is easier and at times more fun when you’re drunk. It also has the added bonus of encouraging people to underestimate me. My enemies look at me and they see what I want them to see. They see a drunk, foul mouthed thug. I look like my name is Valora Salinas and I’m coming to rob your house. They made the threat.. But I promise you not one of those genetic defectives actually believes I’m an assassin. They don’t know nor do they believe I have more money than McStrump or Mudcock. They don’t know I have followers as devoted to me as Summeroff’s cult that worships whale jizz. The total tonnage of what is true about me that people don’t know or wouldn’t believe.. They say the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he doesn’t exist. I can’t convince people I don’t exist.. But I can add that extra level of humiliation to my beaten opponents. Every person I beat has to explain how he lost not only to a woman, but to a ‘washed up, drunken whore’ I believe were the words Mudcock used when I was first brought on board…” Valora narrows her eyes. “I am going to make that fat, old gringo fuckin’ choke on those words.. “
Valora sighs and takes a moment to compose herself, staring into her glass. “However, Summeroff is right about one thing… That little piece of shit in North Korea is a threat to my fuckin’ home and I simply will not allow that. So I’m going to kill him. Not because Summeroff, McStrump and Mudcock blackmail me. Threaten me. Force me. I ain’t doing this for them.” Valora looks back at her glass and drains it in one last big drink, setting the glass down on the table with an echoing thud. “I’m doing it because sometimes.. You gotta put the rabid dog down.”
Kronin raises an eyebrow. “You. Well I believe we were all given that task.” Valora nods. “Yes and you’ve got your damn rules. Rules of Engagement. Rules of Warfare. All that bullshit designed to let people like you sleep at night while finding a way to justify the actions that need to be taken in war. I have much few codes and rules than you do. If I take a job. I do the job. Then I get paid. Then...I usually get drunk. It’s a simple system. Point is.. I can kill him. That isn’t the problem. The problem is what happens after that point. I’ll wager Mudcock, McStrump and Summeroff plan to leave us all there to deal with the aftermath, so we’d be wise to make our own escape plans just in case I’m reading the situation right and we’re hung out to dry.”
Kronin considers this a moment and nods. “I think that’s a safe bet. Do you have an escape plan?” Valora shakes her head. “Beginnings of one.. Will take a bit more time to nail down some details, explore options, etc. We’ll have to come back to this as we get closer to the event. For now, we have a tag team match.”
Kronin nodded thoughtfully. “Well, technically, it’s a handicap match but.. I agree with you, there’s no reason the powers that be would set up a match so clearly in our favor. So before we get to actual strategy, maybe we should look at potential surprises.”
Valora nods. “Well, MOX news will do the standard stuff. I’m evil because I’m Mexican and you’re the bad guy because you’re German.. Never mind these modern day genetic defectives are merely running the same playbook your people ran with in the 30s.” Kronin narrowed his eyes. “Those weren’t my people. They were traitors who killed anyone who didn’t measure up to their B.S. standards. Jewish. Christians trying to protect Jewish Germans. Mentally ill, Mentally and/or handicapped Germans.. Anyone who didn’t fit the propaganda. It should also be noted my country is coming up on close to a century trying to atone for those sins.”
Valora glances at her own hands and nods. “Blood never washes off, Kronin. It’s always there.” Kronin nods. “How odd then, that you have never shied away from getting more blood on your hands.” Valora smirks. “Well, for awhile I thought maybe blood could wash blood off. The blood on my hands was… that of someone who deserved better. I hoped the blood of people who deserved death could mask it. I learned the hard way that isn’t true. Now, before we get to brainstorming about potential surprises.. Why the fuck are you here?”
Kronin shrugged. “You invited me. I’ve never been to the Caribbean before. Wanted to see what all the fuss is about.”
Valora raised an eyebrow, dumbfounded for a second. “Was that a joke? Are you okay? Did you pull something? And isn’t there a law in Germany about humor?” Kronin nodded. “I’ll have you know there are some who’d say I’m a barrel of laughs.” Valora nods. “These people dead? Or is the straight man routine popular in.. never mind.. I started that thought and realized Germans would make perfect straight men. I meant, why are you here? In UOW? I doubt you came back just for your love of wrestling. For one thing.. You’re too much of an elitist for American wrestling fans.” Kronin shrugs. “Sorry. It doesn’t take any real skill to bash someone’s head in with a steel chair or.. A lead pipe.” Valora nods. “You’d be surprised. Lead pipe takes some skill to use.” Kronin nods. “My sister and I work for the German government. After Wrestling, I went back to work I liked. With McStrump in charge, with his attacks on NATO, his B.S. demanding of money from Germany and other allies, and the fact that he seems to be a puppet of the Russian government, my country wanted tabs kept on him. By the By, I’d suggest NATO as a good blueprint for you and I to cooperate with each other.”
Valora thinks about this a second and nods. “We’ll see. But thanks for sharing that with me. So. What’s your bet on surprise? I’m thinking… Summeroff comes out with his pack of whale jizz addicts and goes for the beat down.” Kronin thinks for a moment before nodding. “Sounds about right.. But I think they’re going to want an actual match or something that resembles a match, which leads me to think surprise tag team partner. The only question is who. Most of the obvious choices are taken in matches already. If I had to guess, I’d suggest someone from Summeroff’s cult might be provided to aid, but I doubt we’d be that lucky.” Lilly glances over. “Lucky? How would one of Summeroff’s goons teaming with Walter Reagan be a good thing?” Kronin shrugs. “Because, Walter Reagan claims to be a Christian as well as a Conservative. He would not be happy or excited about the idea of teaming up with ‘Godless Heathens.’ That is why it would have been a good thing.”
Valora walks over to the liquor cabinet in the room and takes out a bottle of tequila, taking a long drink from it as she walks back towards the group. “Well, I don’t think it matters much if we can get on the same page.” Kronin nods. “Exactly. Luckily for us, we know each other fairly well.” Valora nods. “Which brings us to the question of how we work together.” Kronin blinked a few times as he tried to process that and Valora smirked. “You’re a little bit country, I’m a little bit Rock and Roll?” Kronin looked at Lilly after that one and Lilly smirked and gestured back to Valora who shook her head. “You’re an elitist snob when it comes to wrestling. You look at me as a.. ‘Garbage Wrestler’. I know we mentioned that earlier but it’s still there.”
Kronin walked over to Valora, the tall, powerfully built man looking over Valora as he thought for a second. “When we first met, in Wrestling Midwest..Yes. I thought you were just another garbage wrestler. Just another annoying American, arrogantly beating their chest and demanding to be listened to but not having anything of real import to say. Someone who used weapons and cheap shots to cover up lack of any real fighting ability. I saw what you wanted me to see. An ignorant, arrogant degenerate. More riff raff coming in to degrade the sport of Wrestling. But we have fought each other many times, Valora Salinas. We have even fought on the same team before. What I never understood was when you showcased your Lucha Libre talents.. That is when I saw it. You came out in your mask and I saw it in your eyes and heard it in your voice.. The same pride, the same sense of tradition that I had. That is when my respect for you grew. It grew even more the more we fought, the more you proved how good you really are.. I never understood why you kept the mask hidden so often.”
Valora had watched Kronin approach and never took her eyes off his as she listened to him and nodded. “Tradition, Kronin. In Lucha Libre, if you lose your mask.. You’re disgraced. You can never wear the mask again. You will never again be accepted as a Luchadore, or Luchadora in my case. American Wrestling has shown time and time again there is no respect for such things so I...choose not to wear it.. Now if UOW goes to Mexico, Latin America or South America, than I will probably have to wear it.” Kronin nods. “It almost sounds like you’re afraid.” Valora smiles a bit. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve had so much taken from me that I’ve simply decided that this one thing is mine.” Kronin nods. “Now.. as for working together. I think we make a great team. Thunder and Lightning.” Valora smirks. “I’m as a fast as lightning and you provide the heavy hitting?” Kronin laughs a bit. “Something like that.. But you are damn fast Valora.. In attitude, speed and ability to back up your boasts you remind me a lot of-”
Valora cuts him off. “Ali. He was my hero growing up. I wish more than anything I could have seen him fight live.. I watched video of his fights.. Listened to him on the mic.. He gave me hope. He showed me that the way you make change is to stand up and fight back. He refused to fight in Vietnam, but he didn’t run to Canada. He didn’t get deferments like McStrump and the other cowards in the Republican party did. No, he stood up and said ‘This war is wrong. It goes against my beliefs and I refuse to fight in it.’ He went to jail. I learned a lot from that Kronin. I learned my mom’s approach of just keep your head down, was’t the way to go. That you stand up for your beliefs.. It used to be so simple, Kronin.. When I entered I just wanted the fame and the glory.. But that night in Mexico City,... when I won the World Title and the crowd made so much noise it registered as a small earthquake.. “
Kronin puts his hand on Valora shoulder and nods. “Everything changed. I know the feeling. But you had a choice… you have continued on your path, but you chose to become something more. Something better.” Valora smiles sadly and nods, speaking just barely above a whisper. “It’s what she would have wanted..” She then shakes her head and nods. “Anyways.. I think we can put something solid together. I’m on board with this alliance too. How deep do you want this to go?” Kronin thinks for a moment. “An attack on one of us is an attack on all of us. Abbigail gets jumped, you and I come running in to help. In short, we help each other out, look out for each other. If we’re booked against each other.. Then we fight, fair honorable match and may the better fighter win.” Valora nods. “Done. We need to be on the same page because it’s Summeroff’s main source of power.. There is no dissension in his cult.. They do what he tells them to do.. We need a united front to stand against him.. And a united front will help us against McStrump and Mudcock and their B.S. too.”
Kronin nods. “Exactly. Now, speaking of Abbigail.. What’s the update on her?” Valora sighs. “Tara is trying to get her released even if it means ankle bracelet or something for her. If I were willing to completely screw over Sato, Tara could make the argument that Abbigail had no knowledge of the drugs but I imagine that argument is a hard sell without buying into the B.S. that Sato had those drugs. Also, we both know this is blatant blackmail. They know if they release her, I’ve got no reason to help them. I’m going to try a different approach.”
Kronin raises an eyebrow. “A different approach?” Valora nods. “Something odd last show.. McStrump almost seemed like he was taking orders from Summeroff.” Kronin frowns. “I don’t know what’s worse. McStrump on his own or McStrump taking orders from Summeroff.” Valora nods. “I think Summeroff is a slight improvement.. At least he is logical and predictable. The devil we know, as it was.. I’ll make contact with him and tell him that he convinced me. Both of us live on the West Coast, both of us are likely to be the first to be nuked if war breaks out. I’ll say because of that, I’m willing to work with him to assassinate the Emperor of North Korea, but in return I want a guarantee that there is an extraction plan, and I want his aid in getting Abbigail and Sato out of jail. I expect him to balk a bit so I’ll try and get Abbigail out now, and Sato out later. If all else fails.. I’ll think of something.. But I don’t want her in jail long. I’m not sure how she’ll fare.”
Kronin nods. “What is it with her? I never thought of you as the mentor type.” Valora smirks. “She’s… special. Her father is.. Well always in trouble and markets himself as a practitioner of magic. Abbigail managed to get herself an education, and in addition to jobs her education opens up to her, she also has worked as a magician. It’s a useful skill, whether one thinks it’s real or not is irrelevant. There is a useful set of skills. Sleight of hand, misdirection, and the like. Makes her a skilled person to know.” Kronin raises an eyebrow. “You’re open to believing in magic?” Valora smirks. “I’ve seen a lot of weird shit, Kronin. I’m open to the possibility.” Valora says with a shrug. “Now.. let’s get to work and get ready for our match.” She said before all 5 people in the room stood up and headed out, conversing amongst themselves as they left.
|
|
|
Post by moonchild on Oct 16, 2019 18:15:39 GMT -5
Written by Dr. Summeroff
MUTINY!!!
The Blob’s Antechamber – deep, deep within the compound…
Dr. Summeroff smiles as he checks his mobile device and sees the numbers from the BlobCoin ICO hit 300 Million!! The crypto is a huge hit…
Already, repair crews have been brought in to modernize the Compound – upgrade the tech, reinforce the walls, repair the plumbing and electrical, add new wings that can house more servants.
Indeed, many of the new converts – those in attendance at the last few months of UOW programming – have graciously opened up their wallets and their hearts – buying into the Blob’s official crypto. It is, however, at this point in time, just an Ethereum knock-off. Code ported right out of Github.
“One of these days, I should have Brother Computus make some modifications….” the good doctor mumbles to himself.
“You mean like all that crap you put in the white paper”, Abaddon asks, still as skeptical as always.
Simon lifts his head up in outrage drom the Doctor’s knee…and the Blob himself seems to quiver in his tank at hearing this – a brief flash of purple light emanates from the top of the Bio-mass, down to the bottom.
“You see that Abaddon? You have angered The Blob! AND SIMON TOO! We don’t need that FUD in his temple. Keep such thoughts to yourself. Simon can smell FUD like a Vastrix Fart in the training Gym!!”
Fear, uncertainty AND doubt…the three things waiting, claws out – ready to tear into the new found profits.
Speaking of FUD…
“Mr. Buzi…” Summeroff beckons.
“Yes?” Buzi says, yawning. The efforts of recent times have made them all tired.
Summeroff begins, “There’s a fellow in Japan – a trustee of something called Mr. Gox…this man is selling off all his Bitcoins and causing FUD across the markets…well not really. His sales don’t actually coincide with much activity….but the media…oh they are like poor Simon here…they latch onto a bone and won’t let go. I need this caretaker to vanish. Fast. The man threatens the prosperity of the BlobCoin and we can’t have that kind of uncertainty in our lives…”
“You want me to go all the way to Japan to deal with someone who really isn’t to blame?” Buzi asks for confirmation.
“Yes Buzi…I’d have thought by now given our time here in UOW that you would have learned PERCEPTION is the reality.
Why let facts get in the way? It’s what people think that’s real. Take out this trustee and the confidence will be restored. You just watch…”
Buzi frowns, “I can’t just make someone disappear!”
“You can. It is the will of Blob…just as we are going to make our old friend Jeremiah disappear…you see, President McStrump is going to let him out of his prison in time for Abishag’s match…”
Summeroff looks around.
“Where is he anyway?”
Buzi also looks around.
“I’m not sure.”
Summeroff grunts.
“Jeremiah is the reason the order is draped in shame this week Buzi. HE was defeated by the harlot Dresden – kicked backwards onto those concrete steps where his lack of heart and determination was revealed. I can still here that PIN COUNT in my head!”
Summeroff signals for one of the Order’s guards to open the door to the Ante-Chamber.
“BRING IN MR. DAVIS!!!!”
Two guards bring in a beaten and mottled looking Referee Danny Davis.
“I hired you to do one JOB Mr. Davis – Ensure Mr. Abishag got the win from that match! Now if it were just Mr. Abishag alone – well I wouldn’t have need of an ace in my sleeve like yourself. As it was though – Mr. Abishag not only had to do his own part against the crazed fury of Takuma Sato – he also had to carry Mr. Vastrix! Carrying Mr. Vastrix is no small order. A man with his…his paucity of skill…well he never achieved anything in his life without the help of people like Abishag. Poor Abishag…he lets Jeremiah out of his site for but ONE moment…a moment YOU, Mr. Davis were paid to watch for…and look what happened! They mock the order on the forums! On twitter! On Discord…even…on TELEGRAM! We are the laughing stock of not only the wrestling world but our invincibility was challenged in front of President Ronald McStrump himself! Thank goodness the President is now guided by the hand of blob…he sees as the gelatinous master sees…he thinks as the master thinks…and so he was ready with Plan B – the drugs…to have that vile Sato and his disgusting green harlot tramp locked away! Those two are abusers MR. Davis…abusers of the rule of law. Many say that those drugs were planted but I don’t believe it. I choose to believe – knowing Sato as I do – that he’s a law breaking slime trying to corrupt the sanctity of UOW and bring drugs into the locker room! Mind altering substances have no place in the Blob’s locker room!”
Danny Davis protests, “But….I almost got there! Abishag was in the way and…”
“HOW DARE YOU PUT THE BLAME ANYWHERE BUT ON YOURSELF! MISERABLE ACCURSED WRETCH! SIMON! Quickly! To arms! Tenderize this worthless sack of shit!!
Simon Shrieks – a noise that curdles Danny Davis to the bones! The beast is off – leaping from Summeroff’s knee, flying through the air! It’s almost like it’s happening in slow motion, the jaws opening wide and the eggs bugging out from the skull – rage in them. Davis screams and turns but Simon is on him – latching onto the crooked referee’s neck and chewing on it like an extra small sized milk bone!
Soon, Simon makes his way down, biting and chomping in a way that would make Marv Albert sprout wood but for most – eliciting screams of horror. Davis is soon reduced to a quivering, bloody mess.
“THIS is what happens when people fail me Mr. Davis…many souls have made their last journey here – their last thoughts of what could have been…and of what now IS….BUZI! Throw him in!”
Abaddon presses the all too familiar button on the console and the top of the Blob’s tank opens.
Buzi picks up the seeping mess that is Danny Davis and drops him into the tank with all the care of someone throwing out yesterday’s trash.
The Blob – sensing another sacrifice does what it does and envelopes the hapless referee and consumes him.
…..outside the Antechamber, Brother Abishag watches and cringes in disgust. The Doctor has flat out lost his way. He has turned the Blob into a sideshow, using it to dispose of the bodies of those who cross him…swat teams, police, janitors and now UOW referees. Who was next? What if Bob Sigro made a bad call? Would he find himself dropped unceremoniously into the tank as well?
Worse still was the dog and the Blobcoin…What had happened to them all…they used to have honor. They stood for something. Now they were a bunch of second rate charlatans, selling snake oil to the oblivious masses…The order used to be feared…now it was a mockery. Part of that was Jeremiah Vastrix’s fault of course. His incompetence and poor skills in the ring had aged Abishag years….while Jeremiah fumbled around using technology to supplement his shortcomings – Abishag used training and his uncorruptable faith in the Blob to keep him on top of his game. Summeroff had gotten in the way of that now. He spent more time with that filthy, disgusting mutt – Simon – then he did following the teachings of the Blob. Simon would be more at home on a B-Movie film set.
He could be the star….
…of Basket Case…
Or the Deadly Spawn…
Or The Fly.
He was truly hideous.
Instead he had taken his place as Summeroff’s second in command and enforcer.
How could Buzi and Abishag not see it?
Alas – there were two useless hangers on to dispose of this week. Jeremiah Vastrix…
…and Simon.
And so as night fell as the order went to their cots and fell into deep sleep, Abishag snuck into Summeroff’s own quarters.
The doctor stirred for a brief moment…as if he heard the door opening. He face turned to grimace as he farted. Then he relaxed again and went back to whatever dreams he dreamt.
One of Simon’s eyes opened but he realized the danger too late as the Chloroform cloth covered his bashed in snout (Simon actually looked like he’d been struck by an anvil in his youth and that’s why it’s face was all mashed in) and put the mongrel to sleep.
Abishag lifted the deadweight and carried the thing into the hallway.
“Sorry pal…you’ve gotten in the way one too many times…”
Even groggy from the drugs, the mutt still knew too bite and so chomped down on the Abishag’s thumb!
“Oh….you rotten bastard!” Abishag hissed at the thing. He took his good hand, extended his index finger and jammed it onto the dog’s eye. Simon whimpered in pain.
“Yes….that’s it….” Abishag said as he walked outside the compound and made his way down the long path to the Compound. At last he reached the highway and after a moment, a truck passed by.
“Later bitch”, the Blob’s priest says with contempt and tossed Simon in front of a moving truck.
The next morning, Abishag is awakened by a bucket of water to the face.
He opens his eyes and standing there is Sumeroff, Buzi, Abaddon and 12 Order guards…and in Summeroff’s arms – Simon.
“He’s alive!” Abishag yells.
“Yes! HE is alive….barely…and only by the grace of Blob!” Summeroff shouts, outrage in his voice.
Abishag notices most of Simon’s body is coated by the Blob’s essence.
“Yes….you forget the healing properties of the Blob…YOU yourself…in another time and place Abishag…also experienced the Blob’s grace. He showed me in a vision – you dropping into a pool of boiling water!!! The Blob saving you….and now my beloved Simon is on the same door – death’s door….and the Camera’s show it was YOU…CARELESS Abishag! To think you wouldn’t be caught…your treachery knows…”
Abishag stands up.
The rage that had been building there for months now was boiling over…he’d been calm in recent times and his in ring performance had suffered…he taken on rabble such as Vastrix as his partner but now those days were over.
The days of war were back.
Once he was as feared a wrestler as there was on the planet…
Now he’d been reduced to comic relief and mid card appearances.
Summeroff had lost his way.
The Order had lost its way and become a shell of what it should be.
The Blob knew this. In the other realities the Order was a force of nature, bringing glory and titles across federations. FEAR.
RESPECT.
The kind of fear Mudcock and Ronald McStrump commanded in this world.
POWER.
Under the old man and his love of ugly dogs and cryptocurrencies – the order had floundered.
They were the Benny Hill’s of UOW.
No more.
It was time to instill some respect.
Perhaps Abaddon and Buzi also needed reminding…
Abishag began to walk forward…and then he shut the door to the room. He smiles – a large toothy grin.
“Oh…shit”, Buzi said matter of factly, having seen this look in his brother’s eyes before. “Abaddon! Get ready!”
“Get ready for what!?” Summeroff yells, his fist trembling at the temerity of this mutiny! “Guards! Get him!”
The noise coming from the room was terrible…screams, smashing, things breaking, bones breaking, blood pooling under the door and running into the hallway.
The door opens….Simon limps out and drags his broken back legs down the hall. His eyes are glazed over – his only semblance of life is the glow of the Blob’s biomass coursing through his veins.
Soon Abaddon staggers out, bleeding and visibly roughed up. Buzi follows and then Abishag.
“It’s good you chose the right team gentlemen”, Abishag says, dusting off his hands. “I’m in charge now. Together, we will bring the order back to its glory….no more getting along to get along. This fed and everyone in it and associated will bow down to us.”
“What about him?” Buzi says and points to Sumeroff, unconscious on the ground.
“Leave him…if the Blob wants him to live, then he’ll live…”
Abaddon and Buzi nod.
“And find that Mutt…it seems the Blob does want him alive…the question is Why…but then again, who are we to question his ways?”
They stand, quiet, taking in what had just happened.
“Feed those to the Master”, Abishag says and points to the fallen guards, “They are all Summeroff loyalist…no great loss. The Master will will feast tonight”
|
|
|
Post by moonchild on Oct 16, 2019 18:17:40 GMT -5
Written by Vastrix
Prisoner
Four walls, a toilet, a cot, and a door with a barred window that has a sliding door.
This has been the room of “God’s Gift” Jeremiah Vastrix since the show was aired. A prisoner of the United States.
It’s not like he would have expected any less. It was surprising that he hadn’t already been executed for his attempted assassination of the President. He knows that if he had attempted such a thing upon his own father, the ceo of the Warhammer Corporation, that his body would have already been ashes in the wind.
Jeremiah Vastrix for his part is on the floor doing push ups. He’s paced the cell, done sit ups, and any other exercise that he can think of doing to prepare himself for his upcoming match and to keep his mind from straying near the deepest, darkest pits of grief and despair.
He had not killed the President and so he is certain that the antidote was not given to the love of his life in Olivia Cooke.
The weight of the guilt brings Jeremiah down to the floor, tears streaming to the tiled floor to join the dried remnants of others that have already been spilled.
Dr. Summeroff claimed to have not known that the plot to kill the President came from his own ranks. He claimed that Jeremiah had gone out on his own. This is the price of claiming so many followers in such a short period of time. You never know when your followers might do something extraordinarily stupid and on their own. Jeremiah sighs. He gets the chance to avenge himself against Brock Abishag. A grudge match to be able to smash the buffoon for the attack against him after they lost the tag team championship.
He gets the chance to avenge himself against one of Summeroff’s followers. For getting him into this mess in the first place. For getting him to try to kill the President and the murder of the woman that he intended to be his wife. Summeroff created all of these extra followers with whatever was in the rancid rain that he sprayed upon innocent people.
Summeroff himself may not have poured the poison into Olivia’s glass, but he may as well have. Jeremiah would see that Abishag paid and Summeroff paid.
The window to the door slides open and the face of a guard peers in.
GUARD: Stay where you are with your hands behind your back. We’re coming in.
Jeremiah obediently lays on the floor, placing his hands behind his back. Two guards come into the room and place handcuffs on Jeremiah and haul him up so that he can walk with them.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: Soo. Where are we going?
GUARD: Silent!
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: I only ask because I was wonder if I should be wearing my good prison uniform for the firing squad.
The other guard chuckles, but goes silent at a uttered curse from the first guard.
GUARD: You tried to kill the President of the United States of America. You should be happy that you aren’t swinging from a yardarm right about now.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: Guess that means that I will not be getting executed quite just yet. We having a playdate?
Jeremiah is brought into a small room, sat into a chair with his hands chained to the seat. The guards walk out of the room and Secretary of Defense, James Brattis, walks into the room. He sniffs loudly as he paces in front of Jeremiah.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: I don’t do the stuff, but if you let me go I can get ahold of the stuff for you.
JAMES BRATTIS: What now?
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: That was a blow sniff if I ever heard one.
James stops in his tracks, turns, and backhands Jeremiah across the face. Jeremiah cackles as blood trickles from a split lip.
JAMES BRATTIS: I have allergies if you must know. I don’t do blow.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: C’mon now, man. You’re a politician in Washington. Of course you do blow and hookers. I can get ya bot-
This time, James uses a closed fist to strike Jeremiah. The impact nearly sends Jeremiah backwards, chair and all.
Jeremiah spits blood onto the floor and glares at James, who rubs at his fist.
JAMES BRATTIS: I take it that you know to behave yourself? We can do this shit all night if we have to.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: Eat me.
JAMES BRATTIS: Maybe later. I need to know why you decided to try to kill the President.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: Did you ask in the form of a question?
James motions as if he’s going to slap Jeremiah again, but stops with a smile.
JAMES BRATTIS: Why did you try to kill our President.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: I didn’t vote, being multinational in my citizenship. So he’s not my President exactly.
JAMES BRATTIS: Why did you try to kill President McStrump?
Jeremiah sighs. It’s not as if he hasn’t already answered this question over and over again during the course of the last few days. It isn’t as if this were the only meeting that he has had with Brattis.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: My friends asked me to and said that they would kill my girlfriend if I did not do as I was told in killing him within twenty-four hours. There isn’t much more to say.
James nods with his hands behind his back as he begins to pace once again.
JAMES BRATTIS: The ammo that you used is unlike anything that we’ve ever seen before. Was it made by the Warhammer Corporation? We want to buy the ammo for the military.
Jeremiah seems to consider speaking, but then shakes his head.
James nods before punching Jeremiah a few times in the gut before smashing him in the side of the head with an elbow. He sniffs again before speaking.
JAMES BRATTIS: That’s not the answer that I was looking for. Tell me where you got the kind of gun and ammo needed to do a mission like this! This ammo would have destroyed half of the President’s body if it had struck him.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: Get fucking bent…
The Secretary of State spends the next few minutes using Jeremiah as a punching bag, adding to the already deep bruises and cuts. James steps back, blood dripping from his clenched fists.
JAMES BRATTIS: We know the weapon and ammo are from the Warhammer Corporation. We just want to know which member company we need to be buying from. Tell me!
Jeremiah spits blood at the man and laughs.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: You may as well have me executed for treason. I won’t be telling you jack and squat.
JAMES BRATTIS: Not even to save the life of your girlfriend?
Jeremiah frowns. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out.
JAMES BRATTIS: She’s very much alive and at a hospital to deal with the poison in her veins. She is getting an antidote to combat the poison, but only enough to keep her alive and not awaken her. We will finish curing her when you cooperate. Fail and we will let her die…
Jeremiah glares at the Secretary of Defense for a long time, blood drooling from the corner of his mouth. James just smiles, lighting. up a cigarette. He blows smoke in Jeremiah’s general direction with a chuckle.
JAMES BRATTIS: What? You had plenty to say before. You’ve got nothing to say right now? Come on, boy, I’m sure you’ve got the info I need rolling around in your head right now. Just say the word and your girlfriend will live.
Jeremiah makes a “pffft” sound with his mouth, spraying blood at James.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: My girlfriend already died when I failed to kill the President.
JAMES BRATTIS: Are you certain? Have you seen the body? Did you see the light leave her eyes as she cried great tears in the knowing that you failed to keep her alive?
Jeremiah throws his weight forward to try to break his chains, but the chains hold and the chair remains in place.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: You know I was unable to see her! I was not able to hold her hand at the last! Let me out of these chains so I can break your fu-what is that? What are you doing?
James dials a phone, turning the screen to face Jeremiah where Johnny Melange answers the video call. He looks like he’s been awake forever.
JOHNNY MELANGE: Jeremiah? What have they done to you?
Jeremiah shakes his head with a weak smile.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: Nothing that I did not expect. What are you doing?
JOHNNY MELANGE: I’m sitting with sleeping beauty.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: Sleeping…are you saying what I think your saying?
Johnny turns the camera view of the phone to over where Olivia Cooke lays sleeping peacefully in a hospital bed with an IV hooked to her arm.
JOHNNY MELANGE: She’s being treated now. She’s alive and just needs her true love kiss to awaken.
A button press hangs up the phone and Jeremiah is left to look at James’ grinning face.
JAMES BRATTIS: Well?
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: I will tell you everything you need to know. I don’t know if they’ll sell to you, but I will tell you where I got them from.
JAMES BRATTIS: Good. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Maybe we’ll let you into a work out room later so you can get ready to face that traitor, Abishag. Maybe we’ll see about water proofing that cybernetic eye.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: I owe Abishag a beating. So there’s that.
JAMES BRATTIS: Love it. Let’s get a medic and tech support in here to treat you up and then we will speak more.
In a gymnasium someplace unknown where a wrestling ring is set up, “God’s Gift” Jeremiah Vastrix stands in the middle of the ring with a sparring partner across from him. Secretary of Defense, James Brattis, stands outside of the ring.
JAMES BRATTIS: I would like for you to treat your sparring partner like you would like to do for that traitor, Brock Abishag. Think you can do that for me? Mike Spanhook won’t mind it a bit. Right, Mike?
The sparring partner, named Mike Spanhook, waves awkwardly to James.
MIKE SPANHOOK: Umm, yeah?
James points at Mike with both index fingers like his hands were guns as he laughs.
JAMES BRATTIS: Great. The medics are already on their way.
MIKE SPANHOOK: What? Whatever, man.
Mike throws a punch, but Jeremiah catches him by the wrist, and begins the motion for an Irish Whip. Instead of following through with the whips to the ropes, Jeremiah starts an armbar. He palm strikes the back of Mike’s elbow with enough force to hyperextend the joint until-
snap!
Mike screams as his arm snaps like a twig.
If that were the end of Jeremiah’s attack, it would have still been too much. He pulls Mike up into a power bomb position and drops Mike onto his head like a unprotected piledriver.
Mike quits screaming…
JAMES BRATTIS: That was quite the assault! Poor Spanhook didn’t know what the fuck hit him. Hey, Mikey! Are you dead?
MIKE SPANHOOK: I can’t feel or move anything below my neck. Is that bad?
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: It’s not good. They should be able to fix you up.
JAMES BRATTIS: Ain’t nothing that a public execution won’t fix.
MIKE SPANHOOK: What?
JAMES BRATTIS: Nothing.
Two soldiers come into the ring to drag the broken sparring partner away.
MIKE SPANHOOK: Ouch...probably.
James Brattis steps into the ring, placing a hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder with a grin.
JAMES BRATTIS: You’ll do fine in your match against Abishag so long as you keep to this level of bloodthirstiness.
Jeremiah just smirks.
JEREMIAH VASTRIX: I’ll just be thinking of what I want to do to both Abishag and you.
JAMES BRATTIS: That’s the spirit!
|
|
|
Post by moonchild on Oct 16, 2019 18:21:22 GMT -5
Written by Daveyboy O'Brien
Film and Fury
Blue eyes scan the computer monitor before them as the images of Huckleberry’s leap of faith and devastating elbow drop race across. Each time Davey-Boy O’Brien had watched the footage, he was astonished. Not even during his carnival days of wrestling had O’Brien wrestled an alligator. That said, alligators weren’t exactly commonplace in Scotland. But, alligators didn’t exactly have the technical prowess of a human wrestler either. Despite the shock factor of this incredible feat by his next opponent, The Scottish Terrier wasn’t exactly rattled.
By the Tale of the Tape, Davey-Boy O’Brien in a rare situation was actually the larger of the two men. Davey was a master at proving that the Tale of the Tape wasn’t as much of a factor as some might have others believe. Constantly, sportscasters would roast on Davey about his apparent lack of size as a professional wrestler. Constantly, they would choose against him. And, constantly, he would prove them wrong.
Davey shifted uneasily when the alligator didn’t move after the match. It was dead. His jawline tightened as frustration took him as it had the first ten times he’d watched the video. Huckleberry had unnecessarily leapt from the top of that cage to defeat the gator. Had it been survival, the Scot wouldn’t blame the man, but it was quite clear based on the footage here that Huckleberry had knowingly and blatantly killed the gator. Similar feelings had filled him when he saw the way his tag team partner, Kronin, had finished their last match.
Davey-Boy was all for some gratuitous violence, but there was a limit. Professional wrestling, after all, is a sport, not death row. Maybe he was just naive, but Davey preferred to have a respectful match with his opponents, and while injuries did happen in wrestling, there was no reason to needlessly put his opponents into unnecessary danger.
“Ya’ gonner stare at that screen all day, Boyo?” his mentor, Baz Jones, inquired, awakening the young grappler from his locked gaze upon the monitor.
“Crivens, min,” Davey muttered before turning to Baz. “Didnae ye tell me to watch film. Ah’m watchin’ film, ye auld codger.”
An amused grin crossed Baz’s face as he leaned in. “So, what’re yer findings then, lad?”
“That Huckleberry needs a wallap upside the nut just like Kronin,” Davey replied as he smoothed over his mustache with his index finger and thumb.
“Whoa there, lad!” said Jones, “ain’t ye bein’ a bit harsh on yer partner? He won ya the match.”
“He’s a damn bampot! Kronin nearly ended that poor bastart’s life, and ye expect me to raise a mug to that?” Davey-Boy was deadly serious as he glared at his wrestling coach. “He’s almost as clarty as Mudcock. It’s a damn good thing we got that dunderheed to agree to health insurance otherwise that poor sob Kronin dropped on his nut would up to his een in debt.”
The United States, after all, was known for the high cost of healthcare. Davey-Boy had known about that prior to coming to work in the US, but it had never dawned on him until he saw some of the medical bills he had received. It was a damn good thing the others and himself had fought so hard for that insurance.
“That lad must be strong to be able to take on that ‘gator on his lonesome though,” speculated Baz Jones.
“Aye, but I ain’t a damn ‘gator, min. Ah’m a trained fighter. My technique is second to none. In layman’s terms, Huckleberry and ah are going to have a square go and ah’m gaun to put my nut through his face. But, here’s the difference: ah ain’t gaun continue battering him after ah pin ‘im.”
Baz watched as Davey winced before a look of frustration crossed his face again.
“Ya smell it again, don’t yer, lad,” he inquired observantly.
“Aye,” he stated reluctantly. “Seems like that stench will never gaun. Every time I smell it, I just want to wallap something.”
A knowing smile cross Baz’s old features, “wallap Huckleberry, lad.”
Davey’s eyes turned to regard Baz once more. A smirk crossed his face as he nodded.
“Now, ain’t ya got some grapplin’ ter do. On yer feet, ya lazy arse!”
|
|
|
Post by moonchild on Oct 16, 2019 18:22:30 GMT -5
Written by CreativeTruth
Hell On Wheels
In a window-less hallway made of cement and cinder-blocks, Rose Johnston stands by. She is wearing her pink jacket and mini-skirt. She frantically primps her hair with a can of hairspray and fixes her lipstick by stretching her Botox face into an inhuman expression. As the cameras go live, her eyes go wide, and she tosses all her make-up items over her shoulder as if everything was perfectly normal. Rose struts down the hall with a microphone in hand, and the camera frame rushes to catch up while she is on the move.
Rose Johnston: Welcome to the Friday Night Clash Pre-Show. I'm Rose Johnston backstage at the Omni Coliseum. Most of the roster is in the locker rooms getting ready and warming up for their matches. I have been asked by management to locate Huckleberry, and see if he would like to share a few words for the fans at home.
Rose presses open a large blue metal door and finds her way into an expansive parking garage. Several expensive cars are parked near the backstage entrance.
SCREECH
Nearly flipping over from the two side wheels after a sharp high speed turn, a rickety mobile covered in mud and dragging a tail-pipe on the asphalt races down the ramp-way.
Huckleberry: Look out, coming through! She dun got no brakes!
Huck manages to not hit the fragile reporter as he spins the junky golf cart into a seven-twenty spin. The back wheels lift and then tilt and hit the ground hard, bumping the ramshackle cart airborne and tumbling into a rolling jackknife. The velocity of the speeding tornado punches down hard on the front bumper sending it flying twenty feet in the air.
CRUNCH
It lands heavily perched precariously on top of a 1993 V6 Chrysler Labaron.
93-95_Chrysler_LeBaron.jpg
Wikimedia Commons - The Free Media Library, Public Domain
Rose Johnston: I don't believe it, it looks like Huckleberry has arrived, and in the usual unpredictable manner. This time it looks like he managed to crash his vehicle onto the roof of the car of Vice President Robert Elitistos. The windows are all broken, and the body is a complete wreck. I'm going to check and see if Huckleberry is alright.
Huck slips off the side, and downs a quick beer and tosses it over his head into the crash site. He lights a camel cigarette and wheezes a nasty cough after spitting out an other-worldly black goo from his chapped lips.
Rose Johnston: Mr. Huckleberry, that was a devastating crash you were just in. Was your vehicle out of control?
Huckleberry: What-in-tar-nation? I mean--- yeah, one of 'em smart cars. Dang thing drives itself. Satan's sled has got a mind of it's own I say. Somebody could'a gotten real hurt.
Rose Johnston: Are you aware that your little golf cart just crashed in Vice President Robert Elitistos' convertible?
Huckleberry: I did? I mean-- uh. Serves him right. He shouldn't be parked in a handicapped zone. That's for disabled people, like me.
Rose Johnston: I wasn't aware you were disabled. What is your handicap?
Huckleberry: Oh... five, six, seven, eight beers or so. Listen kids, don't drink and drive. And smokin' ain't good for ya neither.
Nearly stumbling over himself, he drops his cigarette onto the pavement where a puddle of gas has been forming. The spark causes a flame, and suddenly rushes towards the wrecked vehicle.
BOOM!
Huckleberry: And remember... Nationwide is on yer side. Has Bobby got car insurance? Because I sure as hell don't got none. Hey, I wonder if his lawyer will help me out with getting a big fat settlement check from the company. I think he's loaded.
As they are conversing, Huckleberry is walking down through the halls. They take a flight of stairs up to the main floor where a concession stand is selling various carnival style foods.
Huckleberry: Ooooewwwie! That smell my-tee-fine.
Vendor: Anything for you Huckleberry. As a member of the roster, everything is on the house for you tonight.
Huckleberry: It is? Well, in that case.... I'll take three cold ones, a bag of popcorn, four corn dogs, two chili dawgs, a super nacho with them hellapeenoes, a candy apple, cotton candy, and one of them cracker jacks for the Missus.
Vendor: Coming right up, Sir.
Rose Johnston: That's a lot of food. You must be hungry.
He hands Rose the box of cracker jacks, and starts gobbling up popcorn messily by the handfuls. Since he doesn't have a full set of working teeth in his mouth, he sort of sucks on them, then swallows and chokes them down instead of chewing on them.
Huckleberry: Well yeah, I got a hankerin' fer some soul food tonight. These other dimwits on the roster are doing those crazy diet plans. Keto diet. Vegan diet. Caveman diet. Atkins diet. Ain't got no sense in their pencilneck heads. Pork an' beans! That's the true cowboy diet. Makes strong bones and a real mean attitude when the heartburn starts roaring through.
Rose Johnston: So this is part of your strategy for your match tonight against Davey-Boy O'Brien?
Huckleberry: Oh him? Well I haven't given it much thought to tell you the truth. The man wears a kilt. Is he really a man though? Might be one of them new age kind of persons. Can't be too sure nowadays with these gender-bender kiddos.
Rose Johnston: I'm fairly certain he identifies as a male.
Huckleberry: Well, I certainly hope so. The man outweighs me with all those muscles and that thick skull. His noggin's so big, I sent him a get well card because I thought he had a tumor. He didn't appreciate the Sourthern Hospitalitee from what I hear.
Something inside Huck's duffel bag jostles around and hisses. Fright surges up the reporter's spine as she presses up against the wall. Huckleberry starts slathering a corn-dog in mustard, and then sucks on it like a popsicle. Rose squeals.
Rose Johnston: Get it away from me. It's moving!
After grabbing the rest of his order, Huckleberry unzips his bag and shoves in the super nachos and a corn dog. Little white furry claws reach out to snatch it up hungrily. Huck starts speaking to the thing in his bag.
Huckleberry: Thur ya go Sargent Pepper. Woah-ho-ho, I'm happy to see you too. Now save some fer me. I got a big match tonight, and I want you to be there with me. If that rascally Scotty Dog comes near ya, you just give him a little nip on the paw, and he'll either have rabies or the runs for a week solid.
As he zips up the bag, Huckleberry leaves Rose as she stands paralyzed against the wall. The camera pans away back to the vendor who shrugs off any blame for the incident. The scene quickly cuts away to a Propecia commercial, showing a man complaining about his difficulty urinating due to his enlarged prostrate.
|
|
|
Post by moonchild on Oct 16, 2019 18:23:35 GMT -5
Written by CreativeTruth
Duke of Hazards Critter Control
In a concrete and steel hallway, an attractive reporter in a pink skirt and jacket is holding a microphone to address the camera. She is still working on her make-up when the feed suddenly goes live.
Rose: Hello! My name is Rose Johnston, and we're reporting on behalf of Ultimate Wrestling. Even though this is not a live television event, I am here at the KFC Yum! Center in Louisville, Kentucky for one of UOW's affiliate organizations owned by Rupert Mudcock. That's right the Underground Southern Wrestling is gaining steem lately, and to increase the popularity we've been giving away tickets to thousands of lucky fans to fill up this huge arena with over 22,000 seats.
Turning around, Rose walks down the hallway passing a few of the female wrestlers on the way. One is wearing daisy dukes and a flannel top tied tightly to show her slim midriff, and the other is wearing a purple lycra outfit with high-heeled wrestling boots. They enter the ladies' locker room door beside a matching door Rose is signaling the camera to zoom in on.
Rose: That was the tag team duo Pansy Perkins and Josie Jacks we just passed by. Behind me here is the men's locker room, where I'm told we might find UOW newcomer, Huckleberry, available for an interview. As you might recall at the last Friday Night Clash, President Rupert Mudcock invited Huckleberry to participate in a special Man vs. Animal match, in which Huckleberry had to wrestle a record sized 15 foot, 1000 pound alligator in a steel cage. Not only did he defeat the alligator with his bare hands, but he won the admiration of fans and fellow wrestlers alike. Let's go inside and see if we can have a word with him now.
Rose presses the men's locker room door open, and sees some gear out on the benches. Around the lockers, she leads the camera to the back area where a pale skinny white man with a bare chest is on his knees bent over scrounging through a tool chest. The camera lewdly zooms in on his slipping plumber's crack.
Huckleberry: Dangnabbit, were in tarnation did that blasted thing run off to?
Rose: Huckleberry, would you mind if I interviewed you for a few moments?
Huckleberry: Well of course you can Honeypie. I was just looking for that thing-a-mabob. Ahh! Eureka! I found it! Hold on one moment, I'll be done faster than a coon kin shake his tail.
Huckleberry lifts up a massive drill bit and smacks a kiss on it, then winks at the camera as he rigs it up into his drill. After hoisting up his slipping trousers, he points the drill at a tile on the wall and pulls the trigger. The clay tile chips and breaks under the force of the spinning drill bit swiftly chewing it up. A few moments later, pieces of drywall, plastic, and even metal begin flicking out all around the wide hole.
Huckleberry: Almost there... almost there...
Rose: What on earth are you doing? Does the arena know that you are damaging their equipment?
Huckleberry: Naa, it ain't like that. Ya see, I needed some extra cash this week, to pay for my medical bills and all, so I asked Rubert if he had any side work I could do. As a matter of fact he did! Ya see, they gotta a real bad critter problem here in the KFC Yum! Center. Turns out that finger lickin' good chicken the Colonel's been cookin' ain't just sweet for the fans, but it also draws rats like moths to a flame. My job is to er-er-er--
Huckleberry slaps himself with is free hand.
Huckleberry: --Eradicate the rats! Rupert says he'll pay me $10... per tail! Yeeewieee! Mighty sweet!
Rose: And you think the rats are in the wall?
Huckleberry: Not the wall. The pipes. Rats can swim ya know.
Rose: I hope you're right. So Huckleberry, I'd like to ask you a question about your last match. In that match, you took a frightening injury from the alligator. Would you mind sharing a bit about what that was like, and how your recovery is going?
Huckleberry: Ahh that? It's nothin' really. Ma used to wrassle gators all the time, and I have some friends in Florida and Louisiana, and we used to hunt gators all the time. This gator was a big one alright. So big in fact, I sent the carcass across the border, and they paid me 500 pesos for him, gave me six pack of Coronas for it, and fixed me up with one of 'em Mexicano witch doctors to stitch up my ass. The Witchy Man did a right-fine job. We was both so liquored up, I thought he was going to sew my ass shut, but some how he kept my vertical smile untouched. Ain't she purdy?
Huckleberry rotates his bum around, and slides one side of his pants down to show the stitches from his recent injury from the gator bite. His right cheek is red and swollen, and the interior area is green and scaly.
Huckleberry: Gen-u-ine Alligator Leather! Yessiree. That stuff will last me a lifetime, and is sure as hell gonna be a helluva conversation starter when I'm in the sack with a pretty gal.
Huckleberry elbows Rose, and gives his sly wink.
The drill bit suddenly catches in the wall.
Huckleberry: Ooowwiee, baby. I think we gotta live one here! I'm gonna juice it up...
As he revs up the drill, it starts to smoke a bit. He keeps pressing through, and it catches fire!
CLINK!
A jet of water gushes out and knocks Huckleberry on his freshly injured ass. He cries out in pain and starts spinning round in circles as the water whirlpools around him into a quickly rising flood.
Rose: Can somebody please get some help back here. We need a plumber or a facilities manager back here! We're going to cut to quick commercial break--
fxuxb9m80b9f2cspribo.jpg
As the brief intermission ends, Huckleberry is bent over once again, this time with his face pressed against the wall, looking through the hole that was freshly drilled.
Huckleberry: Mmm-hhmm. Hmmm-mmm. Uh-huh. Uh-huh.
Rose: Welcome back, I'm Rose Johnston. If you're just now joining us, I'm conducting an interview with Huckleberry the Gater Slayer, as some are calling him here in the southern circuit. Before the break, I learned that Huckleberry has been hired by Rupert Mudcock to handle a rat infestation here at the arena. While drilling through the wall, apparently searching for rats in the pipes, I also learned that Huckleberry had his recent injury from the gator bite recently remedied by a Mexican Witch Doctor, who stitched a skin graft onto the wounded area using the leather hide of the same alligator he defeated in his match. Only moments after learning this information, a water main broke in the wall nearly flooding this room. We managed to shut off the water during the break so that Huckleberry can continue his job looking for rats to trap. Huckleberry... can you tell me how the search is going?
Huckleberry: Huh? Oh... it's going... all little to the left... oh yeah... that's right... right there... ain't she a purdy one? She's a furry one, all right. I like 'em furry. A real southern bell.
Suddenly, the shower tiles start popping off the wall, and a huge entity bursts through the wall like the Kool-Aid man.
2zn7DRr.gif Source
With an enormous paw it swats Rose clear across the room, and knocks her out cold. It steps over the rubble to reveal itself with a blood curdling metallic growl. It is a 10 foot tall grizzly bear with razor sharp metals jaws and laser eyes targeting in on the hillbilly wrestler. Strangely, it is also wearing a straw hat.
Huckleberry: Well my golly, if it isn't the Country Bear Jamboree, comin' to kill me.
attachment_45685210.jpg Source
The big, bad country bear starts singing a disturbing tune.
There was blood on the saddle and blood all around And a great big puddle of blood on the ground A cowboy lay in it all covered with gore And he never will ride any broncos no more Oh, pity the cowboy, all bloody and red For the bronco fell on him and bashed in his head There was blood on the saddle and blood all around And a great big puddle of blood on the ground
The bear standing up on its hind legs drops down onto its front paws, pinning Huck to the floor. It's drool burns sizzling acid holes into the tiled floor. Huckleberry struggles to slip free of its hulking weight, but he is completely outmatched.
Huckleberry: I ain't goin' out like this, not on my watch. Hey Yogi, look over there! It's Cheer Bear.
Bear: Huh?
As the bear turns to look, Huckleberry smashes it on the head with a glass Corona beer bottle. The foam of the beer crackles and pops as it interacts with the laser eyes of the animatronic beast. It starts screeching and shaking uncontrollably, and rolls over onto its back. With one last death shriek, it farts out a puff of black smoke, and then ceases all movements.
Huckleberry stands up and dusts himself off. He has some deep scratches on his chest, but nonetheless he smiles a toothless grin at the camera.
Huckleberry: And dat right there is one dead mud rat.
Huck digs up a hacksaw, and shreds through the bear's tail, and holds up the trophy.
Huckleberry: Can't spell Huckleberry without B-E-R, Bear, now, can you?
Off to the side the reporter, Rose Johnston, regains her senses.
Rose: Folks, I'm not sure, but I think this may have been some kind of deadly agent sent from the Order of the Blob. Were they trying to get rid of Huckleberry? One can only speculate. That thing almost killed me, though I'm sure I was more of an incidental bystander from this devastating attack. If Huckleberry hadn't thought of using the liquid of the beer to short-circuit the bear in the same way the beer was used to disrupt Jeremiah Vastrix's cybernetic eye during the main event at Friday Night Clash, then it might have mauled him, myself, and the entire roster and staff here. I'm sorry folk, I need to get some medical attention now. I'll now return you to the action at ringside.
In the background, Huckleberry can be seen lifting the broken Corona bottle up in the air above his mouth, trying to drink the last few drops from the bottle. As the interview ends, the scene returns to ringside where the ring announcer is introducing the contestants for the next match at ringside.
|
|
|
Post by moonchild on Oct 16, 2019 18:24:32 GMT -5
Written by MoonChild
The Walter Reagan Chronicals: Part 1
It was the usual Friday night for Walter Reagan, as it had been since he’d returned from Desert Storm in 91. A room full of war heroes forgotten by their government and their fellow countrymen struggling with the painful memories of combat. The support service was held in a dimly lit room that smelled of stale old coffee and male body order. Walter sat among the other veterans in a circle and listened to the stories of his fellow brothers in arms who had fought in various conflicts throughout the years. An old grizzled man by the name of Ronald Washington was speaking about his time in Vietnam while smoking a Marlboro Red cigarette. He was wrinkled, sported white hair, and had a striking resemblance to Clint Eastwood, if Clint had actually not led a pampered life of luxury. His hands shook a bit as he described a battle gone bad with his comrades all around him dying. A surprise attack from the Viet Cong that had left him on his own running through the Jungle in the dead of night covered in his compatriot’s blood.
Ronald Washington: I don’t know why the good Lord spared me that night. I hid the muck and mud for hours until they were gone. I have the same nightmare almost every night, amongst others. I got scars all over my body from bullets I’ve taken and what do I have to show for it? No family, no job, and I’m basically homeless right now.
Walter Reagan: GOD DAMN IT!
Everyone’s attention turned to Walter in the room as they starred at his large beat red face full of anger and frustration. It was clear that Ronald’s story had set his very short fuse off and once he blew up there was usually no cooling him off. It was his greatest weakness in society and his greatest asset in combat.
Walter Reagan: IT’S NOT RIGHT! WE PUT OUR LIVES, OUR FUTURES, AND MINDS ON THE LINE FOR THIS COUNTRY AND ALL THESE DAMN LIBERALS AND SOCIAL JUSTICE WARRIORS TREAT US LIKE FUCKING GARBAGE! THIS MAN IS A HERO! HE SHOULD BE TAKEN CARE OF BY SOCIETY! I GOT FRIENDS WHO DIED FACE FIRST IN THE BLAZING HOT DESERT SAND SO THAT THEY COULD COME BACK AND BE SHAT ON BY THESE MILLENNIAL LIBERALS!
The support group grunted and nodded in agreement with Walter. Even the group leader sympathized with his and Washington’s frustrations. The pain the room was real and no one else, and only the people who had experienced what they had first hand could ever understand what they were going through and were feeling inside. Ronald continued after Walter settled down after his intense rant.
Ronald Washington: I just need a job, and purpose in life. My wife is gone, and I lost my only son when he went off to Afghanistan to help bring down Saddam Hussein regime.
Group Leader: It’s hard for people your age to find employment these days. There is definitely some age discrimination happening out there.
Walter Reagan: You know what Ronald. I’m going to talk to my boss and see if I can set up an interview for you. I’m sure Mr. Mudcock could use another good man like yourself.
Ronald Washington: Really? That would be absolutely fantastic Walter. I… I can’t thank you enough. Walter Reagan: Just looking out for a fellow soldier.
Walter gave Ronald a good pat on the back and after the meeting the two exited the old building together. Walter gave him the phone number and address to Ultimate Wrestling headquarters and the two parted ways for the evening. The next day Walter had shown up to work early in the morning in order to get Rupert up to speed on Ronald. Rupert had been acting weird since Friday Night clash six, but Walter couldn’t place his finger on what had caused the change in his behavior. He knew better then to question the old man. Rupert Mudcock was not a man you questioned, you followed his orders, and that was that.
Rupert: What do I look like WALTER? A damn charity? How dare you arrange an interview for me without my approval or knowledge? What on earth were you thinking man!
Walter: Sir with all due respect, this man is a true patriot! He fought in Vietnam!
Rupert: Vietnam? We lost that war Walter! I don’t have room for losers on my payroll dammit!
Walter: Sir please…he’s a McStrump voter and a real fan of yours.
Rupert sighed heavily and mumbled “for Blob’s sake” quietly under his breath.
Walter: What was that sir?
Rupert: Nothing, never mind. Just send him in and let’s see what this old bastard has to offer us.
Walter: Thank you sir! You won’t regret this!
Walter left the room and a few minutes later reentered with Ronald in tow behind him. Ronald shook hands with Rupert and then had a seat across from his desk. Ronald was dressed in his best suit, was clean shaved, and was sporting a freshly trimmed haircut. He sat their nervously waiting for Rupert to spark up conversation.
Rupert: So Walter here tells me you’re looking for work. What exactly are your skills Ronald?
Ronald: Well sir I’ve had fantastic military training, and I feel I could be a great asset to your security team.
Rupert: No.
Ronald: No sir?
Rupert: I’m not looking for people your age to join my security team. No offense Ronald but your just not of a practical age for that kind of work.
Ronald: Sir if you would just give me a chance I…
Rupert: What other skills do you have?
Ronald seemed frustrated with Rupert’s behavior but kept his cool and tried to pitch himself the best he could.
Ronald: Well sir I’m great with my hands and know how to work with tools extremely well. I think I could be a good asset to your Ultimate Wrestling setup crew.
Rupert: Unfortunately we don’t have any openings in that department.
Ronald suddenly got up finally getting the hint that Rupert had no interest in hiring him.
Ronald: I understand sir. Thank for the opportunity to meet such a great man as yourself. Good luck with your business.
Rupert: Sit down Mr. Washington. I’m not going to let a man who fought for this country end up on the street begging for small change. I think I have just the job for you.
Ronald sat back down and Walter smiled happily. He knew Mr. Mudcock wouldn’t let him down. Somewhere in that overweight body of his was a heart of gold. Rupert stood up walked over to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of 23 year old Pappy Van Winkle bourbon. After ingesting a few eager slurps he turned to face his two veterans.
Rupert: Are janitor recently passed away and were having issue with our plumbing. In fact this morning I recently clogged the stall down the hall. A man of skills could be perfect to handle the custodial arts needs of Ultimate Wrestling Mr. Washington. What do you say good sir?
The short lived joy that Ronald had felt slowly faded away. Somewhere inside the last of his pride and self-worth died. He slowly got up out of his chair and shook Rupert’s chubby hand swallowing the last of his dignity.
Ronald: Thank you sir. I won’t let you down.
Rupert: I’m sure you won’t. The janitor’s closet is down the hall. See yourself to the plunger. I had a big breakfast this morning. It’s going require a good amount of elbow grease get that clog out.
Walter turned around clenching his fist tightly using all of his self-control to not tell the fat media mogul to go fuck himself. It was obvious that he would have to prove to the man he was capable of more than just clearing the clogs from his bowel movements. As Ronald left the room Walter turned to Rupert in order to give gratitude.
Walter: Thank you sir. You’ve given a great man some sense of self-worth in a very difficult moment in his life.
Rupert: You owe me quite the favor Walter. I expect for you to wipe the floor Salinas and Reignhardt this week on Friday Night Clash 7.
Walter: They won’t stand a chance sir.
Rupert: Also you will be accompanying the roster to North Korea with Robert. I don’t trust our Vice President with this critical mission. We need a man with real military experience on the ground. I’ve assure President McStrump of your competence so don’t let me down.
Walter: Yes sir!
Rupert: Now get the fuck out of my office! I have important things to attend too.
Walter: Thank you sir! I won’t let you down!
Walter left the room feeling extremely proud of himself and determined to execute his boss’s directives. He was ready to finally show the wrestling world just what he was capable of against two of the sports very best.
To be continued.
|
|