Post by Bloodsport King on Jul 1, 2022 6:22:01 GMT -5
Dear Boss,
What a shit way to open a letter, right? 'Dear Boss'. Way to ruin the mystique by either outing himself as subservient to the 'bobbies', or as a sarcastic prick who's probably as insufferable to look at as his writing is to read.
Fuck, this isn't gonna get any better is it?
Here's another bit - 'You will soon hear of me and my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha ha.'
See, now we KNOW he's a bonafide psychopath. He actually wrote out that 'ha ha', in CURSIVE too. Definitely criminally insane.
Not like I'm one to talk.
Blah blah blah, something about cutting ears off and having a really sharp knife. Big drop in quality here, at least it was weird and whimsical before. Honestly I'm not impressed.
This is supposed to be London's boogieman, huh? This is the best you people got?
Well I'm not much of a writer to be frank, but there'll still be plenty of the 'red stuff' on my hands on the third. Probably all over the canvas too.
Jack the Ripper don't got shit on Tommy Hate.
We open in a room, lit just well enough by the old yellowing lightbulb affixed to it's socket in the ceiling to make out the room's lone occupant. TOMMY HATE, clothed in a black tank top, leather jacket and torn blue-jeans, is seated on a black steel folding chair, his head town and fingers of both hands secured loosely upon the handle and butt-end of a wooden baseball bat that's been wrapped in barb-wire. Tommy lifts the bat's head off the floor an inch or two off the ground and then drops it, an action he repeats to start a rhythm of small echoing 'clonks' that sound ominously like the ticking of a clock.
Looks like they stuck a bunch of the Americans in one match. Probably hope we'll all take care of each other and they won't have to deal with any of us. They've got a habit of this kind of thing y'know... the Brits. Always trying to put people in boxes. I hope the ones they made for you two are real nice - pine even, as the saying goes.
Tommy lifts up his head to look at the camera properly.
Yeah, if you haven't figured it out I'm the third man in that ménage a trois that got booked for Adrenaline. Y'know, some people would be pissed. I've heard a lot of the excuses before, shit like 'a one on one would have been better to showcase my skills' or 'having a third in the match just isn't fair'. But I'm not all that worried about showing off, and I've beaten a hell of a lot more than two men at once so I'm not worried about someone stacking the deck against me either.
Tommy leans back in his chair.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Tommy Hate. If you look at it from a few angles - I'm probably the worst fucking thing that could have happened to this company. Medical expenses are gonna go through the roof and - I know they say that there's no such thing as bad press, but lemme tell ya there very much is. Not my problem though, I got offered a contract and some good money so here I am, across the Atlantic in jolly ol' England. Not the first time but hey, it's just as cloudy and miserable looking as I remember so at least, despite a few 'troubles' since the last time I was here, it's nice to see that not much has changed.
One of Tommy's hands drifts to his side, the other lifts and drops the bat again for another 'clonk' of wood on concrete.
Here's what I know about you, Ricky. I know you're from Florida which makes way too much sense as context for everything else I know. I know that you think you're hot shit because you took some kung-fu classes, you think you're untouchable and that's what you walk around with that fuckin' stupid look on your face all the time. At least I think that's a 'look', I might genuinely apologize if I come to find out that's just how your face looks all the time. You call yourself the Machine Gun but you'd probably faint at the sight of one... yeah Ricky, I'm in your head. And you, LaChappa? Big man packing some power, stupid name aside. But I've fought bigger, and the ones that were still conscious at the end went bawling home to Mamma. I hope you still got a Mamma back in Oklahoma you can cry to. I also hope, for her sake, that she skips watching Adrenaline so she doesn't gotta see what I'm gonna do to you.
Tommy stands and props his bat up on his shoulder.
Here's your homework boys - listen close, because you're only gonna get the assignment once. Visit or call to everyone you care about, every single important person in your life, and get anything and everything you need to off your chest. Because you might just not have the option when I'm done with you. When I'm through, it's gonna look like a GRENADE went off in that ring. No hollow-eyed yes man or trough of comfort food is gonna save you from me, or make it better after I'm done.
Nobody gets out in one piece.
Tommy walks away, his boots leaving bloody prints on the concrete as the scene fades out to the tune of music.
♩♫ So give them blood, blood, gallons of the stuff
Give them all that they can drink and it will never be enough
So give them blood, blood, blood
Grab a glass because there's going to be a flood ♪♫
What a shit way to open a letter, right? 'Dear Boss'. Way to ruin the mystique by either outing himself as subservient to the 'bobbies', or as a sarcastic prick who's probably as insufferable to look at as his writing is to read.
Fuck, this isn't gonna get any better is it?
Here's another bit - 'You will soon hear of me and my funny little games. I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope ha ha.'
See, now we KNOW he's a bonafide psychopath. He actually wrote out that 'ha ha', in CURSIVE too. Definitely criminally insane.
Not like I'm one to talk.
Blah blah blah, something about cutting ears off and having a really sharp knife. Big drop in quality here, at least it was weird and whimsical before. Honestly I'm not impressed.
This is supposed to be London's boogieman, huh? This is the best you people got?
Well I'm not much of a writer to be frank, but there'll still be plenty of the 'red stuff' on my hands on the third. Probably all over the canvas too.
Jack the Ripper don't got shit on Tommy Hate.
We open in a room, lit just well enough by the old yellowing lightbulb affixed to it's socket in the ceiling to make out the room's lone occupant. TOMMY HATE, clothed in a black tank top, leather jacket and torn blue-jeans, is seated on a black steel folding chair, his head town and fingers of both hands secured loosely upon the handle and butt-end of a wooden baseball bat that's been wrapped in barb-wire. Tommy lifts the bat's head off the floor an inch or two off the ground and then drops it, an action he repeats to start a rhythm of small echoing 'clonks' that sound ominously like the ticking of a clock.
Looks like they stuck a bunch of the Americans in one match. Probably hope we'll all take care of each other and they won't have to deal with any of us. They've got a habit of this kind of thing y'know... the Brits. Always trying to put people in boxes. I hope the ones they made for you two are real nice - pine even, as the saying goes.
Tommy lifts up his head to look at the camera properly.
Yeah, if you haven't figured it out I'm the third man in that ménage a trois that got booked for Adrenaline. Y'know, some people would be pissed. I've heard a lot of the excuses before, shit like 'a one on one would have been better to showcase my skills' or 'having a third in the match just isn't fair'. But I'm not all that worried about showing off, and I've beaten a hell of a lot more than two men at once so I'm not worried about someone stacking the deck against me either.
Tommy leans back in his chair.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. My name is Tommy Hate. If you look at it from a few angles - I'm probably the worst fucking thing that could have happened to this company. Medical expenses are gonna go through the roof and - I know they say that there's no such thing as bad press, but lemme tell ya there very much is. Not my problem though, I got offered a contract and some good money so here I am, across the Atlantic in jolly ol' England. Not the first time but hey, it's just as cloudy and miserable looking as I remember so at least, despite a few 'troubles' since the last time I was here, it's nice to see that not much has changed.
One of Tommy's hands drifts to his side, the other lifts and drops the bat again for another 'clonk' of wood on concrete.
Here's what I know about you, Ricky. I know you're from Florida which makes way too much sense as context for everything else I know. I know that you think you're hot shit because you took some kung-fu classes, you think you're untouchable and that's what you walk around with that fuckin' stupid look on your face all the time. At least I think that's a 'look', I might genuinely apologize if I come to find out that's just how your face looks all the time. You call yourself the Machine Gun but you'd probably faint at the sight of one... yeah Ricky, I'm in your head. And you, LaChappa? Big man packing some power, stupid name aside. But I've fought bigger, and the ones that were still conscious at the end went bawling home to Mamma. I hope you still got a Mamma back in Oklahoma you can cry to. I also hope, for her sake, that she skips watching Adrenaline so she doesn't gotta see what I'm gonna do to you.
Tommy stands and props his bat up on his shoulder.
Here's your homework boys - listen close, because you're only gonna get the assignment once. Visit or call to everyone you care about, every single important person in your life, and get anything and everything you need to off your chest. Because you might just not have the option when I'm done with you. When I'm through, it's gonna look like a GRENADE went off in that ring. No hollow-eyed yes man or trough of comfort food is gonna save you from me, or make it better after I'm done.
Nobody gets out in one piece.
Tommy walks away, his boots leaving bloody prints on the concrete as the scene fades out to the tune of music.
♩♫ So give them blood, blood, gallons of the stuff
Give them all that they can drink and it will never be enough
So give them blood, blood, blood
Grab a glass because there's going to be a flood ♪♫