Post by bloodiedfox on Dec 4, 2020 5:16:49 GMT -5
Though ivy creeps up around it, and though weather has eroded chunks away, the pillar stands firm. Even Nemo slamming Necrophage into it, both hands wrapped tight around his throat, doesn't make it shift.
Why did you eat the fucking dog?
Nemo's words come out in an angry hiss as he stares up at Necrophage's face, which is turning a fascinating combination of red and blue as he struggles to breath dangling in the larger man's grip.
Because... they didn't... send a cat...
Necrophage breaks out in to a gurgling laugh as Nemo begins to vibrate in barely restrained fury.
Why do you care? Did you want a dog?
Nephilim asks the question as he slouches on a pew, watching the scene unfold. If he looks alarmed at his leader strangling his tag partner, he's doing an incredibly job of hiding it. Nemo wheels to face him, dropping Necrophage to the ground, where he collapses in a giggling and gasping heap.
The dog is not the issue. What is the issue is that this idiot has set Scott Steele off. Outmanoeuvring a mentally challenged muscle mountain in a battle royale is a skill that needs finesse. Finesse is easier when said muscle mountain is not single mindedly bent on your destruction because your subordinate ate a puppy to sell his goddamn psycho gimmick.
Oh it's not a gimmick. Trust me, he really is just that nuts.
This is wrestling, Neph; everything is a gimmick. None of us here are real: not you, not me, not Eric Dane, not Lord Dominicus, and especially not fuckboy here.
Necrophage attempts to pull himself up. Nemo pivots and boots him in the face.
I did not say you could get up.
He turns back to Nephilim.
We're all of us illusions; broken people playing a game of pretend. We close our eyes and keep hoping that one day, if we believe just hard enough, we'll become what we claim to be.
So why do it?
Because what else are we going to do? We wouldn't be here if we were functional human beings. We were either irretrievably broken for the moment we were born, or we stumbled into this industry and were broken by it. We are never getting out, so we either make the best of it, or...
Or what?
Or we burn the whole thing to the ground.
He lets the credo hang in the air for a moment before continuing, pointing back at Necrophage without bothering to turn and look at him.
Clean that mess up, and keep him on a tighter leash in future. I have to go figure out how to handle all this.
Nemo stomps away. Cut to black.
Why did you eat the fucking dog?
Nemo's words come out in an angry hiss as he stares up at Necrophage's face, which is turning a fascinating combination of red and blue as he struggles to breath dangling in the larger man's grip.
Because... they didn't... send a cat...
Necrophage breaks out in to a gurgling laugh as Nemo begins to vibrate in barely restrained fury.
Why do you care? Did you want a dog?
Nephilim asks the question as he slouches on a pew, watching the scene unfold. If he looks alarmed at his leader strangling his tag partner, he's doing an incredibly job of hiding it. Nemo wheels to face him, dropping Necrophage to the ground, where he collapses in a giggling and gasping heap.
The dog is not the issue. What is the issue is that this idiot has set Scott Steele off. Outmanoeuvring a mentally challenged muscle mountain in a battle royale is a skill that needs finesse. Finesse is easier when said muscle mountain is not single mindedly bent on your destruction because your subordinate ate a puppy to sell his goddamn psycho gimmick.
Oh it's not a gimmick. Trust me, he really is just that nuts.
This is wrestling, Neph; everything is a gimmick. None of us here are real: not you, not me, not Eric Dane, not Lord Dominicus, and especially not fuckboy here.
Necrophage attempts to pull himself up. Nemo pivots and boots him in the face.
I did not say you could get up.
He turns back to Nephilim.
We're all of us illusions; broken people playing a game of pretend. We close our eyes and keep hoping that one day, if we believe just hard enough, we'll become what we claim to be.
So why do it?
Because what else are we going to do? We wouldn't be here if we were functional human beings. We were either irretrievably broken for the moment we were born, or we stumbled into this industry and were broken by it. We are never getting out, so we either make the best of it, or...
Or what?
Or we burn the whole thing to the ground.
He lets the credo hang in the air for a moment before continuing, pointing back at Necrophage without bothering to turn and look at him.
Clean that mess up, and keep him on a tighter leash in future. I have to go figure out how to handle all this.
Nemo stomps away. Cut to black.