Post by Dackle on Jan 3, 2018 20:15:33 GMT -5
The camera focuses in on the fire roaring in the fireplace. As it pans out, Dackle is seen in his red silk robe, slippers, and pajama pants, sitting in his winged back chair. He is sipping on a scotch in his glass. He sets the glass down as the ice cubes chink against the crystal.
Here we are again. Another show coming to pass in the good old FWA. Kosloff gave me my wish. I am going to defend these phony baloney belts with my partner in Darkness against two poor souls in my asylum match.
He turns his head, as if he is daydreaming.
I can remember when I came up with the asylum. It was way back in the days of the old ICW. No one ever beat me in that match. Hell, you don’t win or lose in an asylum match, you survive. Only one man survived that match. That man was Dylan Black.
Now he and I are champions. Now we face some jerk off who doesn’t have the testicular fortitude to come and join the Darkness, and some gigantic pain in the ass. James Raymond, you want so bad to be a part of the Darkness, but you simply don’t meet the qualifications.
Dackle takes another sip from his tumbler. As he sets the drink down on the mahogany end table, he gasps a refreshing ‘Ahh’.
Ya see wanna be, you have feelings. You have a heart. You have a conscious. To be one of us, you can have none of those things. I am sure you have no idea what I mean. Fear not, you soon will. Myself and Mr. Black, well, we have no feelings, feelings like remorse, guilt, pain, none of that. We will not regret what we do to you. We will not regret leaving you a bloody and miserable heap as your crimson life force stains the floor of my asylum.
Now Imma change gears here, and address the Doctor of Chaos. Rob Wyatt, let me ask you a question. Do you know what happened to the last man who called himself a doctor and walked into the asylum with me?
Dackle smiles and chuckles a bit to himself.
I’ll tell ya. I’ll tell ya because he can’t. I ripped apart Dr. Singh to the point to where he is in a medically induced coma. He has just enough higher brain function that the state of Missouri won’t allow his family to pull the plug. He and you will have something in common.
Ya see, the last time he moved his arms, the last time he walked, the last time his pathetic vocal chords cried out for help was in a room much like the one you will be walking into. While I have been told I cannot do to you what I did to him, what I cam promise you is you will scream for help, and you will not walk out of there. You will be a lot like Dr. Rujin Singh, you will be a prisoner, unable to escape your torturous existance, and it will all be caused by my hand.
So while I sit here, staring into the fire, the only light in this otherwise cavernous darkness, I want each of you to truly think about what lies ahead. Myself and Mr. Black, we are right at home in the darkness. Ask yourselves, are you?
The fire suddenly dies. The whole room is pitch black. The camera operator flips on the night vision to see Dackle’s chair empty. An ominous laugh can be heard echoing throughout the room. The camera cuts out.
Here we are again. Another show coming to pass in the good old FWA. Kosloff gave me my wish. I am going to defend these phony baloney belts with my partner in Darkness against two poor souls in my asylum match.
He turns his head, as if he is daydreaming.
I can remember when I came up with the asylum. It was way back in the days of the old ICW. No one ever beat me in that match. Hell, you don’t win or lose in an asylum match, you survive. Only one man survived that match. That man was Dylan Black.
Now he and I are champions. Now we face some jerk off who doesn’t have the testicular fortitude to come and join the Darkness, and some gigantic pain in the ass. James Raymond, you want so bad to be a part of the Darkness, but you simply don’t meet the qualifications.
Dackle takes another sip from his tumbler. As he sets the drink down on the mahogany end table, he gasps a refreshing ‘Ahh’.
Ya see wanna be, you have feelings. You have a heart. You have a conscious. To be one of us, you can have none of those things. I am sure you have no idea what I mean. Fear not, you soon will. Myself and Mr. Black, well, we have no feelings, feelings like remorse, guilt, pain, none of that. We will not regret what we do to you. We will not regret leaving you a bloody and miserable heap as your crimson life force stains the floor of my asylum.
Now Imma change gears here, and address the Doctor of Chaos. Rob Wyatt, let me ask you a question. Do you know what happened to the last man who called himself a doctor and walked into the asylum with me?
Dackle smiles and chuckles a bit to himself.
I’ll tell ya. I’ll tell ya because he can’t. I ripped apart Dr. Singh to the point to where he is in a medically induced coma. He has just enough higher brain function that the state of Missouri won’t allow his family to pull the plug. He and you will have something in common.
Ya see, the last time he moved his arms, the last time he walked, the last time his pathetic vocal chords cried out for help was in a room much like the one you will be walking into. While I have been told I cannot do to you what I did to him, what I cam promise you is you will scream for help, and you will not walk out of there. You will be a lot like Dr. Rujin Singh, you will be a prisoner, unable to escape your torturous existance, and it will all be caused by my hand.
So while I sit here, staring into the fire, the only light in this otherwise cavernous darkness, I want each of you to truly think about what lies ahead. Myself and Mr. Black, we are right at home in the darkness. Ask yourselves, are you?
The fire suddenly dies. The whole room is pitch black. The camera operator flips on the night vision to see Dackle’s chair empty. An ominous laugh can be heard echoing throughout the room. The camera cuts out.
