Post by Donzig on Sept 19, 2022 18:21:36 GMT -5
Sinclair Godfrey took a deep breath as she stood outside of the heavy wood door in the shadow filled hallway, and the sound of classic rock boomed through the door as she paused. A faint frown, eyes narrowing before she lifted her hand to knock on it. There came no answer, and she knocked again.
‘Oh, by the Empty Night.’
She reached for the door handle, and then something stepped from the darkness. A low hiss, and she looked up into the gleaming black skull mask of the huge Mormo. Sinclair lifted a brow, and waved him away before she shoved the door open. She swept inside, and her eyes soon found the Scourge behind his huge desk.
Books were scattered across it, and he was writing. She cocked her head, then frowned.
‘Is this Ricky Nelson?’
Donzig looked up, and she saw he was not wearing his mask.
‘When I got to the garden party
They all knew my name
No one recognized me
I didn't look the same.’
Sinclair sighed as his voice hissed forth, and she clasped her arms around herself as she swept forward.
‘I don’t see–’
‘But it's all right now
I learned my lesson well
You see, you can't please everyone
So you got to please yourself.’
Sinclair stared into the burning hearth, and she turned with a shrug.
‘Reign has sent us tickets to the next event. Twice.’ Donzig looked up, those cold eyes narrowed. Sinclair frowned, whenever that face had less life then his mask that meant nothing good for anyone. She waved a hand, stepping closer. ‘We can’t just sit here licking our wounds! Are you going to brood instead of fighting Death Trap?’
‘Our –my notes on the causes of the War of the Roses will not write themselves, Sinclair.’
The Baroness frowned, and she looked around the room. Donzig using ‘we’ pronouns was also nothing but trouble. Her eyes settled on an old worn looking leather biker jacket, the back was painted with two tattered and burned flags. One American. One British.
That was also not good, and her hand moved to brush across the battered leather before she looked back to Donzig.
‘Reign wants to know when you’re coming.’
Donzig’s hand snapped out, and slammed a heavy book shut. His fingers dug into the cover as his head lifted, and he frowned before he spat angrily.
‘Oh, so Reign needs us–me again? Their new fucking toys losing their shine already, eh? The nerve of these people! The fucking audacity!’
Sinclair flinched, Donzig’s voice could be venomous and bitter. But it rarely sounded full of emotion, but now his voice was full of mounting fury. He shoved the book aside, and he leaned back in his chair to steeple his fingers before him. And then he continued, his voice boiling with rage.
‘We were – I was the first person to sign with this company! For the better part of a year, a fucking year I went everywhere and I fought everyone who dared, who fucking dared to come in here and challenge me! I built this fucking place, yeah? I carried it on my damned back!’
Sinclair stepped back, and Donzig rose from his chair. His eyes blazed with anger, and his face was alive suddenly with rage. He fairly twitched, and he swept a hand as he started to pace back and forth. A hand dragged across his bald head, and he roared.
‘Did the people at Reign ever ask us to challenge for the X-crown? Did they ever ask us to represent them at an event? Did they even offer us a spot at End of Days? No! No! They just made us, US, jump through fucking hoops! Meanwhile, they are off what?’
A book was flung across the room, and Sinclair jerked as it bounced against the wall before it bounced across the floor.
‘Courting Steve Awesome? Signing the guy whose claim to fame is he stabs people? DRAGGING RAT BASTARD AND DEATH TRAP OUT OF GOD KNOWS WHERE? And what do I get? Scraps from their table? To see the Usurper steal what is mine! And now, and now–’
Donzig glared, and a hand raked through his beard as his voice was not the same rasping snarl as normal.
‘They want me to show up at their show because they have decided I am worthy to what? TO WHAT? FIGHT FOR SOME PLATE THEY HAVE GIVEN TO RUIN? What is it, what is it, what is it! What fucking match is it! What is it that is so great!’
Sinclair swallowed, and glanced again at the worn painted leather of that jacket. She was in danger as she pressed herself against the wall. A hand lifted to brush through her hair, tugging on it before she shrugged.
‘It’s for the Big Top Plate–’
Another book flew, and Donzig pointed as he sputtered.
‘Yes, let’s do a season of comedy! Let’s just fucking do it! It is not funny enough around here without little hats, Bang Bros shit, and fucking Stabby McStabby! Just not hilarious enough! What the fuck ever! Let’s all just do bits, let’s all do bits! Tell the ODS they better learn how to superkick!’
‘--on a cruise ship! And if you knock Death Trap off the plank into the pool below you win.’
‘I’ll throw him off a goddamned plank alright, I will throw him right off the fucking plank, and maybe I will take out a few of those miserable fans when I miss the pool!’
Sinclair swallowed, and Donzig glared as his hands were balled into fists as his shoulders heaved.
‘Donzig–’
‘WHAT? WHAT?’
Sinclair walked across the room, skirting Donzig before she shoved aside a few papers. She dug through the papers and books, and then dragged out the gleaming metal mask of the Scourge. She handed it to him, and then swept across the room to snatch up the coat. She walked to the door, and handed it off to Mormo.
‘Put that away!’
Then she turned back to Donzig, who was stroking the surface of the mask before he slowly pulled it back on. He took a deep breath, and his fingers slid across it as he shivered. Sinclair watched him, and then his hand lifted with an absent flick of his fingers.
‘Ah, thank you, good Baroness. He was very close to the surface, that was unpleasant.’
Sinclair blinked, her lips quirking into a faint smile as Donzig dragged his wrist across the slotted mouth of the mask.
‘What do you–’
‘But he is not wrong, he is not wrong.’ The emotion slowly bleed from that voice, and it became a cold hissing rasp once more. The voice was still angry, but it was a cold icy fury not the raging inferno of a few moments before. Donzig shrugged, and he dropped down in the chair behind the desk. ‘Reign has strayed from the path, they have sinned against the Children, they have made mock of the Scourge. And then they dangle Death Trap before me like some sort of treat, eh? So be it. I will throw Death Trap from the heights of heaven, and I will take their bloody shitshow circus plate.’
Donzig hissed, a hand lifting before he glared at the flames burning in the fireplace.
‘And I will throw it right into the fucking depths.’
‘Oh, by the Empty Night.’
She reached for the door handle, and then something stepped from the darkness. A low hiss, and she looked up into the gleaming black skull mask of the huge Mormo. Sinclair lifted a brow, and waved him away before she shoved the door open. She swept inside, and her eyes soon found the Scourge behind his huge desk.
Books were scattered across it, and he was writing. She cocked her head, then frowned.
‘Is this Ricky Nelson?’
Donzig looked up, and she saw he was not wearing his mask.
‘When I got to the garden party
They all knew my name
No one recognized me
I didn't look the same.’
Sinclair sighed as his voice hissed forth, and she clasped her arms around herself as she swept forward.
‘I don’t see–’
‘But it's all right now
I learned my lesson well
You see, you can't please everyone
So you got to please yourself.’
Sinclair stared into the burning hearth, and she turned with a shrug.
‘Reign has sent us tickets to the next event. Twice.’ Donzig looked up, those cold eyes narrowed. Sinclair frowned, whenever that face had less life then his mask that meant nothing good for anyone. She waved a hand, stepping closer. ‘We can’t just sit here licking our wounds! Are you going to brood instead of fighting Death Trap?’
‘Our –my notes on the causes of the War of the Roses will not write themselves, Sinclair.’
The Baroness frowned, and she looked around the room. Donzig using ‘we’ pronouns was also nothing but trouble. Her eyes settled on an old worn looking leather biker jacket, the back was painted with two tattered and burned flags. One American. One British.
That was also not good, and her hand moved to brush across the battered leather before she looked back to Donzig.
‘Reign wants to know when you’re coming.’
Donzig’s hand snapped out, and slammed a heavy book shut. His fingers dug into the cover as his head lifted, and he frowned before he spat angrily.
‘Oh, so Reign needs us–me again? Their new fucking toys losing their shine already, eh? The nerve of these people! The fucking audacity!’
Sinclair flinched, Donzig’s voice could be venomous and bitter. But it rarely sounded full of emotion, but now his voice was full of mounting fury. He shoved the book aside, and he leaned back in his chair to steeple his fingers before him. And then he continued, his voice boiling with rage.
‘We were – I was the first person to sign with this company! For the better part of a year, a fucking year I went everywhere and I fought everyone who dared, who fucking dared to come in here and challenge me! I built this fucking place, yeah? I carried it on my damned back!’
Sinclair stepped back, and Donzig rose from his chair. His eyes blazed with anger, and his face was alive suddenly with rage. He fairly twitched, and he swept a hand as he started to pace back and forth. A hand dragged across his bald head, and he roared.
‘Did the people at Reign ever ask us to challenge for the X-crown? Did they ever ask us to represent them at an event? Did they even offer us a spot at End of Days? No! No! They just made us, US, jump through fucking hoops! Meanwhile, they are off what?’
A book was flung across the room, and Sinclair jerked as it bounced against the wall before it bounced across the floor.
‘Courting Steve Awesome? Signing the guy whose claim to fame is he stabs people? DRAGGING RAT BASTARD AND DEATH TRAP OUT OF GOD KNOWS WHERE? And what do I get? Scraps from their table? To see the Usurper steal what is mine! And now, and now–’
Donzig glared, and a hand raked through his beard as his voice was not the same rasping snarl as normal.
‘They want me to show up at their show because they have decided I am worthy to what? TO WHAT? FIGHT FOR SOME PLATE THEY HAVE GIVEN TO RUIN? What is it, what is it, what is it! What fucking match is it! What is it that is so great!’
Sinclair swallowed, and glanced again at the worn painted leather of that jacket. She was in danger as she pressed herself against the wall. A hand lifted to brush through her hair, tugging on it before she shrugged.
‘It’s for the Big Top Plate–’
Another book flew, and Donzig pointed as he sputtered.
‘Yes, let’s do a season of comedy! Let’s just fucking do it! It is not funny enough around here without little hats, Bang Bros shit, and fucking Stabby McStabby! Just not hilarious enough! What the fuck ever! Let’s all just do bits, let’s all do bits! Tell the ODS they better learn how to superkick!’
‘--on a cruise ship! And if you knock Death Trap off the plank into the pool below you win.’
‘I’ll throw him off a goddamned plank alright, I will throw him right off the fucking plank, and maybe I will take out a few of those miserable fans when I miss the pool!’
Sinclair swallowed, and Donzig glared as his hands were balled into fists as his shoulders heaved.
‘Donzig–’
‘WHAT? WHAT?’
Sinclair walked across the room, skirting Donzig before she shoved aside a few papers. She dug through the papers and books, and then dragged out the gleaming metal mask of the Scourge. She handed it to him, and then swept across the room to snatch up the coat. She walked to the door, and handed it off to Mormo.
‘Put that away!’
Then she turned back to Donzig, who was stroking the surface of the mask before he slowly pulled it back on. He took a deep breath, and his fingers slid across it as he shivered. Sinclair watched him, and then his hand lifted with an absent flick of his fingers.
‘Ah, thank you, good Baroness. He was very close to the surface, that was unpleasant.’
Sinclair blinked, her lips quirking into a faint smile as Donzig dragged his wrist across the slotted mouth of the mask.
‘What do you–’
‘But he is not wrong, he is not wrong.’ The emotion slowly bleed from that voice, and it became a cold hissing rasp once more. The voice was still angry, but it was a cold icy fury not the raging inferno of a few moments before. Donzig shrugged, and he dropped down in the chair behind the desk. ‘Reign has strayed from the path, they have sinned against the Children, they have made mock of the Scourge. And then they dangle Death Trap before me like some sort of treat, eh? So be it. I will throw Death Trap from the heights of heaven, and I will take their bloody shitshow circus plate.’
Donzig hissed, a hand lifting before he glared at the flames burning in the fireplace.
‘And I will throw it right into the fucking depths.’