Post by Oblivion Death Squad on Jan 25, 2023 19:34:35 GMT -5
It was a dark quiet night in the depths of the great state of Mississippi when the big black SUV pulled into the lot of the small run down looking bar in the middle of nowhere. Gravel crunched under it’s tires, and it pulled into a spot near the weathered wooden walls. The neon glow of the various bar signs gleamed on the black surface of the SUV’s hood, and then the doors opened. Out of the back stepped the hulking form of the monstrous Mormo. He glared around angrily, and then he opened the passenger door.
A delicate booted foot hit the gravel, and then the Baroness Sinclair Godfrey stepped out with a tilt of her head. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips curled into a sneer before she shook her head in disgust.
The driver’s door opened then, and Moloch stepped out. He scowled around the parking lot, and his eye narrowed on the building before he slammed the door shut. Then he shrugged, and Sinclair motioned to the bar as the three advanced.
The door banged open, and the crew inside of the bar turned with a faint look of surprise as they saw the three black clad figures. The patrons were all clearly rednecks, clad in faded denim and old tshirts. They seemed perplexed, the ones near the pool table whispering to each other under the sounds of the Allman Brothers. Sinclair waved a hand, and she moved towards the bars with the grim figures of the Death Squad following behind her.
Of course, the Baroness got a few admiring looks as she approached the bar before she leaned against the worn and stained wood. Then she drew her hand back, staring at her fingers before she rubbed them together. Her hand swept at her coat, and she frowned. ‘Do you have any Glenfiddich 1937 Rare?’
The tender stared at her, wiping at a glass with a stained looking rag. Then he swallowed, and looked at the bottles arrayed behind him. He shook his head, and Sinclair sighed.
‘The Dalmore Port Wood Reserve? The Glenlivet 12 Year Old?’
The Bartender tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes in confusion.
‘...Whut?’
Sinclair scowled.
‘Scotch?’
The bartender nodded quickly, and he slammed down a bottle that boldly stated ‘Old Smuggler’s Blended Scotch Whiskey’. A tumbler soon joined it, and he poured some out before he slid it across the bar to the gaping Sinclair. She shook her head, lifting it before she took a sniff before frowning as she handed it off to Mormo.
The big man swallowed it with a shrug, before joining Sinclair at glaring around the bar.
‘I begin to think the Glucks may be the pinnacle of Mississippi. No wonder Donzig wouldn’t come here.’
Mormo grunted, and Sinclair shrugged as she once again stared at the bar with some disdain. Then one of the bar patrons blinked at her in surprise, he tugged on his stained and worn trucker hat before he gestured with his bottle of beer.
‘ Scuse me, miss. But we– well, the only Donzig I know ain’t even allowed in Ole' Miss anyhow.’
Sinclair stared at him, then she looked to the Death Squad. They shrugged, and she turned back to the man with a tilt of her head. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she sniffed.
‘Explain.’
‘Ah, well. Back in th’ day, he came down t’ Jackson and made fun of th’ mess from Katrina. He was tryin’ t’ upset Anthony Jordan.’
Sinclair stared, and she lifted a hand in disbelief before looking back the Death Squad. Mormo didn’t seem surprised at all, and Moloch was getting another cheap scotch.
‘Who does that? Wait, was that 2005?’
‘Thereabouts.’ said the man as he took a swig of beer.
‘Syndicate Donzig.’ said Sinclair with a shudder. ‘I bet Sheldon Reese was in on it. Those two brought out the worst in each other.’
‘Mistah Draven had t’ pay up, and they ended up bannin’ Donzig from Mississippi!’
‘I bet that broke his heart.’
Sinclair sighed, and Moloch was staring at the bottles. Sinclair arched a brow at him, and then another one of the guys at the bar leaned over to yell as he lifted a beer bottle.
‘Anthony Jordan is a state treasure! He is the greatest wrestler from Mississippi! The only people better are the Gluck boys!’
Mormo snarled at that, his huge hand balling into a fist as he started forward. Sinclair lifted a hand, motioning him back as she frowned slightly. The man in question who was wearing a Crane shirt of all things blinked at them, and he lowered his bottle as he looked at trucker hat.
‘Wait… yore them, ain’tcha?’
Sinclair rubbed at the bridge of her nose, as if this murder of the english language was hurting her. She waved a hand, leaning back before the man continued excited.
‘It’s th’ Baroness! And them boys there is the Death Squad boys! Th’ hell are y'all doin’ in Mississippi?’
Sinclair tilted her head, her fingers rubbing together again before she shrugged. A glance back at the silent Mormo and Moloch. Then she leaned forward, a brow lifting before she murmured.
‘We came to Mississippi to scout out the Glucks on their home turf. We decided the best way to see what those two giant lummoxes were capable of? We needed to step into the swamps of Mississippi, and see the place that spawned such men. And let me tell you? I am unimpressed by this backwater, and the creatures that inhabit it.'
The bar patrons stared at her, thinking it seemed. Mormo stood behind her, arms folded over his chest as Moloch called for another shot. He hammered down a double, and Sinclair stared at him before she tsked.
‘How can you drink that swill?’
‘Në Shqipëri ky është rafti i lartë.’
‘Top shelf in Albania? How sad.’
Then the Baroness turned back to the man in the trucker hat and his friend, a faint smile as she continued.
‘You know what isn’t top shelf? Here or in Albania? The Brothers Gluck. You see the Glucks managed to squeak out a win when the Death Squad had fought their way through the entire division. And some how, some way, they think this makes them as good as the Death Squad? As good as the Soldiers of the Apocalypse? Of the shocktroops of the Scourge? The Glucks?’
Sinclair snorted, shaking her head.
‘And then for some reason, that is beyond even the understanding of the greatest mind in the XHF which actually doesn’t mean much the Glucks have aligned themselves with that–’ Sinclair seemed at a loss for words, and she waved her hand as she thought for a long moment. Then her fingers snapped, and she sneered. ‘--other piece of American guttertrash Wesley Crane! Instead of their former piece of guttertrash Ronnie Long? Sure, why not. Because the Glucks are just 581 pounds of deadweight for one of those two to drag along for the ride!’
The patrons were falling silent and a few were muttering as Sinclair glared around the bar. Her hand pushed back her hair, and she lifted her chin as she looked at the muttering crowd before she continued with a smirk.
‘You see now that I have seen this place? I understand the Glucks better. Because what else could they be besides what they are coming from a place like this! A place full of people who think they are greater than they are, but frankly peaked in what Americans call high school. They sit here in this little dump of a bar drinking swill, and pretending they are more then they are. And the Glucks? They are just the scum that floats on top of the cesspool! But then we know that you people love your lost causes don’t we.’
She jerked her head towards the Confederate flag on the far wall, and the crowd followed her gaze. And then they all stared back at her, and they were all clearly agitated now. And the one beside Trucker Hat waved his beer before he slammed it down on the bar. Mormo and Moloch froze, and their eyes snapped towards him as one.
‘Hey, I think she’s insulting us.’
‘Empty Night.’
One of the bar girls stepped forward, and shook her dirty blonde hair before she grabbed Sinclair’s shoulder to spin her around on the stool. The Baroness grabbed her arm, twisting her wrist before she shoved her away as she rose to her feet. One of the girl’s friends charged in, and Sinclair snapped a kick across her face. The bartender yelled, waving his arms as one of the man stepped towards the laughing Baroness.
Mormo grabbed him, a hand clamping around his throat before he lifted him upwards before he drove him through a nearby table. Bottles and glasses went flying, and the man sprawled in a broken heap as Mormo turned as another charged at him with a whoop. Mormo caught him, snapping him backwards with a vicious Uru Naga!
Two more ran at him, one snapping a pool cue across his back. The big man growled, and then turned slowly to fire a huge punch into his face.
Three of the patrons charged at Moloch, one of them leaping onto his back to wrap his arms around his neck and throat. Moloch reached backwards, and flung the man across the bar with a roar. And then another was slid down across the bar with a shower of alcohol and breaking glass before the third was cracked with a clothesline.
More of the patrons ran at Moloch, who slammed a fist into his chest. Mormo meanwhile was tossing aside bar patrons right and left, snarling and spitting as he tossed two across the pool table. Meanwhile most of the women had decided against trying their hand against the wickedly grinning Sinclair, who leaned back on the bar as she watched the chaos with a smile that would have reminded anyone who saw it of the cold cruel grin of Donzig.
Her hand snapped out without looking, and her nailed fingers dug into the shirt of the bartender as she hauled him closer so she could hiss to him.
‘Do you see this? This is what is waiting for your precious Glucks. They turned their backs on W:UK, and the Scourge is displeased by this show of insolence. You see the Glucks are like the people in this dive? Weak. Pathetic. Unskilled. All they have is size, all they have is raw power, but the Children? Mormo. Moloch. They are killers, soldiers, every move is a death blow. They are executioners, and the Glucks? Are the condemned.’
The Bartender licked his lips, looking nervous as he saw Mormo tackle another oncoming patron with a huge shoulder as he drove the big man into the wall with a sharp crack. The man fell to the floor, and another swung a pool cue at him. Mormo caught it, and then cracked it across the man’s shoulders with a snap of wood before he flung him aside.
Moloch was flung another across a table, glass and bottles shattering before he caught another to drop him hard on the floor before he bumped forearms with his brother. The two looked around the carnage and wreckage, and Mormo spat before one of the patrons staggered back to his feet. He was huge, a big man clearly gone to fat as he wobbled forward to throw a punch at Mormo. Mormo ducked the blow, and tossed the man across his shoulder with deadly ease.
Reality Falls.
The Bartender gaped, and Sinclair shoved him back before she reached inside of her jacket. A wad of British pounds was pulled out, and she dropped it on the bar with a smirk. Then she jerked her head at the door, and the Death Squad filed out of the bar. Sinclair followed them after a moment, stepping lazily across the broken bodies and wreckage before she stopped at the door to look back at him.
‘Tell the Glucks, we will see them soon.’
A delicate booted foot hit the gravel, and then the Baroness Sinclair Godfrey stepped out with a tilt of her head. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips curled into a sneer before she shook her head in disgust.
The driver’s door opened then, and Moloch stepped out. He scowled around the parking lot, and his eye narrowed on the building before he slammed the door shut. Then he shrugged, and Sinclair motioned to the bar as the three advanced.
The door banged open, and the crew inside of the bar turned with a faint look of surprise as they saw the three black clad figures. The patrons were all clearly rednecks, clad in faded denim and old tshirts. They seemed perplexed, the ones near the pool table whispering to each other under the sounds of the Allman Brothers. Sinclair waved a hand, and she moved towards the bars with the grim figures of the Death Squad following behind her.
Of course, the Baroness got a few admiring looks as she approached the bar before she leaned against the worn and stained wood. Then she drew her hand back, staring at her fingers before she rubbed them together. Her hand swept at her coat, and she frowned. ‘Do you have any Glenfiddich 1937 Rare?’
The tender stared at her, wiping at a glass with a stained looking rag. Then he swallowed, and looked at the bottles arrayed behind him. He shook his head, and Sinclair sighed.
‘The Dalmore Port Wood Reserve? The Glenlivet 12 Year Old?’
The Bartender tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes in confusion.
‘...Whut?’
Sinclair scowled.
‘Scotch?’
The bartender nodded quickly, and he slammed down a bottle that boldly stated ‘Old Smuggler’s Blended Scotch Whiskey’. A tumbler soon joined it, and he poured some out before he slid it across the bar to the gaping Sinclair. She shook her head, lifting it before she took a sniff before frowning as she handed it off to Mormo.
The big man swallowed it with a shrug, before joining Sinclair at glaring around the bar.
‘I begin to think the Glucks may be the pinnacle of Mississippi. No wonder Donzig wouldn’t come here.’
Mormo grunted, and Sinclair shrugged as she once again stared at the bar with some disdain. Then one of the bar patrons blinked at her in surprise, he tugged on his stained and worn trucker hat before he gestured with his bottle of beer.
‘ Scuse me, miss. But we– well, the only Donzig I know ain’t even allowed in Ole' Miss anyhow.’
Sinclair stared at him, then she looked to the Death Squad. They shrugged, and she turned back to the man with a tilt of her head. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she sniffed.
‘Explain.’
‘Ah, well. Back in th’ day, he came down t’ Jackson and made fun of th’ mess from Katrina. He was tryin’ t’ upset Anthony Jordan.’
Sinclair stared, and she lifted a hand in disbelief before looking back the Death Squad. Mormo didn’t seem surprised at all, and Moloch was getting another cheap scotch.
‘Who does that? Wait, was that 2005?’
‘Thereabouts.’ said the man as he took a swig of beer.
‘Syndicate Donzig.’ said Sinclair with a shudder. ‘I bet Sheldon Reese was in on it. Those two brought out the worst in each other.’
‘Mistah Draven had t’ pay up, and they ended up bannin’ Donzig from Mississippi!’
‘I bet that broke his heart.’
Sinclair sighed, and Moloch was staring at the bottles. Sinclair arched a brow at him, and then another one of the guys at the bar leaned over to yell as he lifted a beer bottle.
‘Anthony Jordan is a state treasure! He is the greatest wrestler from Mississippi! The only people better are the Gluck boys!’
Mormo snarled at that, his huge hand balling into a fist as he started forward. Sinclair lifted a hand, motioning him back as she frowned slightly. The man in question who was wearing a Crane shirt of all things blinked at them, and he lowered his bottle as he looked at trucker hat.
‘Wait… yore them, ain’tcha?’
Sinclair rubbed at the bridge of her nose, as if this murder of the english language was hurting her. She waved a hand, leaning back before the man continued excited.
‘It’s th’ Baroness! And them boys there is the Death Squad boys! Th’ hell are y'all doin’ in Mississippi?’
Sinclair tilted her head, her fingers rubbing together again before she shrugged. A glance back at the silent Mormo and Moloch. Then she leaned forward, a brow lifting before she murmured.
‘We came to Mississippi to scout out the Glucks on their home turf. We decided the best way to see what those two giant lummoxes were capable of? We needed to step into the swamps of Mississippi, and see the place that spawned such men. And let me tell you? I am unimpressed by this backwater, and the creatures that inhabit it.'
The bar patrons stared at her, thinking it seemed. Mormo stood behind her, arms folded over his chest as Moloch called for another shot. He hammered down a double, and Sinclair stared at him before she tsked.
‘How can you drink that swill?’
‘Në Shqipëri ky është rafti i lartë.’
‘Top shelf in Albania? How sad.’
Then the Baroness turned back to the man in the trucker hat and his friend, a faint smile as she continued.
‘You know what isn’t top shelf? Here or in Albania? The Brothers Gluck. You see the Glucks managed to squeak out a win when the Death Squad had fought their way through the entire division. And some how, some way, they think this makes them as good as the Death Squad? As good as the Soldiers of the Apocalypse? Of the shocktroops of the Scourge? The Glucks?’
Sinclair snorted, shaking her head.
‘And then for some reason, that is beyond even the understanding of the greatest mind in the XHF which actually doesn’t mean much the Glucks have aligned themselves with that–’ Sinclair seemed at a loss for words, and she waved her hand as she thought for a long moment. Then her fingers snapped, and she sneered. ‘--other piece of American guttertrash Wesley Crane! Instead of their former piece of guttertrash Ronnie Long? Sure, why not. Because the Glucks are just 581 pounds of deadweight for one of those two to drag along for the ride!’
The patrons were falling silent and a few were muttering as Sinclair glared around the bar. Her hand pushed back her hair, and she lifted her chin as she looked at the muttering crowd before she continued with a smirk.
‘You see now that I have seen this place? I understand the Glucks better. Because what else could they be besides what they are coming from a place like this! A place full of people who think they are greater than they are, but frankly peaked in what Americans call high school. They sit here in this little dump of a bar drinking swill, and pretending they are more then they are. And the Glucks? They are just the scum that floats on top of the cesspool! But then we know that you people love your lost causes don’t we.’
She jerked her head towards the Confederate flag on the far wall, and the crowd followed her gaze. And then they all stared back at her, and they were all clearly agitated now. And the one beside Trucker Hat waved his beer before he slammed it down on the bar. Mormo and Moloch froze, and their eyes snapped towards him as one.
‘Hey, I think she’s insulting us.’
‘Empty Night.’
One of the bar girls stepped forward, and shook her dirty blonde hair before she grabbed Sinclair’s shoulder to spin her around on the stool. The Baroness grabbed her arm, twisting her wrist before she shoved her away as she rose to her feet. One of the girl’s friends charged in, and Sinclair snapped a kick across her face. The bartender yelled, waving his arms as one of the man stepped towards the laughing Baroness.
Mormo grabbed him, a hand clamping around his throat before he lifted him upwards before he drove him through a nearby table. Bottles and glasses went flying, and the man sprawled in a broken heap as Mormo turned as another charged at him with a whoop. Mormo caught him, snapping him backwards with a vicious Uru Naga!
Two more ran at him, one snapping a pool cue across his back. The big man growled, and then turned slowly to fire a huge punch into his face.
Three of the patrons charged at Moloch, one of them leaping onto his back to wrap his arms around his neck and throat. Moloch reached backwards, and flung the man across the bar with a roar. And then another was slid down across the bar with a shower of alcohol and breaking glass before the third was cracked with a clothesline.
More of the patrons ran at Moloch, who slammed a fist into his chest. Mormo meanwhile was tossing aside bar patrons right and left, snarling and spitting as he tossed two across the pool table. Meanwhile most of the women had decided against trying their hand against the wickedly grinning Sinclair, who leaned back on the bar as she watched the chaos with a smile that would have reminded anyone who saw it of the cold cruel grin of Donzig.
Her hand snapped out without looking, and her nailed fingers dug into the shirt of the bartender as she hauled him closer so she could hiss to him.
‘Do you see this? This is what is waiting for your precious Glucks. They turned their backs on W:UK, and the Scourge is displeased by this show of insolence. You see the Glucks are like the people in this dive? Weak. Pathetic. Unskilled. All they have is size, all they have is raw power, but the Children? Mormo. Moloch. They are killers, soldiers, every move is a death blow. They are executioners, and the Glucks? Are the condemned.’
The Bartender licked his lips, looking nervous as he saw Mormo tackle another oncoming patron with a huge shoulder as he drove the big man into the wall with a sharp crack. The man fell to the floor, and another swung a pool cue at him. Mormo caught it, and then cracked it across the man’s shoulders with a snap of wood before he flung him aside.
Moloch was flung another across a table, glass and bottles shattering before he caught another to drop him hard on the floor before he bumped forearms with his brother. The two looked around the carnage and wreckage, and Mormo spat before one of the patrons staggered back to his feet. He was huge, a big man clearly gone to fat as he wobbled forward to throw a punch at Mormo. Mormo ducked the blow, and tossed the man across his shoulder with deadly ease.
Reality Falls.
The Bartender gaped, and Sinclair shoved him back before she reached inside of her jacket. A wad of British pounds was pulled out, and she dropped it on the bar with a smirk. Then she jerked her head at the door, and the Death Squad filed out of the bar. Sinclair followed them after a moment, stepping lazily across the broken bodies and wreckage before she stopped at the door to look back at him.
‘Tell the Glucks, we will see them soon.’
