Post by Outcast on Jul 15, 2021 17:02:49 GMT -5
I feel the thud of a fist slamming into my face, and the sting of my eyebrow splitting open from the knuckles of the said fist. It's a feeling I'm quite familiar with, but one you never really get used to. What's even worse than this freshly opened eyebrow, that in this gashed and bloody state resembles Lissandra's box for one week a month, is the zip ties that are cutting into my wrist. If you haven't figured it out by now, my trip to Atlanta isn't going very well.
I don't know what I was thinking, wait yes, I do, I wasn't thinking at all. I was seeing red and charged in headfirst. I was a f**king idiot, and, and now I'm paying for it.
My pittance for this stupidity is a beating that may end with a bullet to the head.
Yeah, I'm getting pretty f**king singed.
"Who sent you?", Tony asks before punching me in the jaw. Tony is the previously mentioned, "big, bald, Aryan-looking dude.", but I don't think that description does this big motherf**ker justice. F**k this racist prick is huge.
My mouth fills with blood and before I can spit it out, Tony does me the favor of emptying it with a left cross that snaps me to the side. What a nice guy Tony is.
One last time asshole, who sent you?
Ok, ok, it was Jenna.
Jenna? Jenna who?
Tolls.
Jenna Tolls?
I couldn't help myself. Tony didn't get it and as I saw him mouthing to name over and over, I began to laugh. My laughter was a giveaway. "You son of a b*tch", Tony says before kicking me in the chest so hard that my nipples touched. The force of the kick knocked me and the chair I’m zip-tied to backward. I land on the concrete with a thud and barely have time to catch my breath before Tony starts stomping.
"Who sent you", he continues to ask while stomping my guts in. Even if I was going to answer I wouldn't have a chance in-between stomp.
Tony finally tires out and takes a step back and looks at me while catching his breath.
You ready to talk?
I slowly shake my head yes and begin to answer, but once again am a victim to my own cynical nature.
Jack.
Jack, who?
Inimoff.
Jack Inimoff... you motherf**ker.
He got it that time. Tony comes closer, I'm assuming to stomp my head this time, but I'm saved by the ring of my phone. Tony stops and snarls and heads for the phone he has on a table at the end of the room. Sh*t, it's Jones. I was supposed to have a phone interview for Piledriver. Well, there goes my bonus points, and frankly, I need all the help in the rankings I could get.
Admittedly though, I have bigger problems at this current moment. I can't see anything but the ceiling, but I can hear and I hear someone coming down the steps. Then, I hear the voice, the same voice I heard scream in fear when I kicked his front door open and pointed my .38 at his head before Tony blindsided me, it was Anderson.
I can hear Anderson and Tony talking.
He talking yet?
Only outta his ass.
A tough guy huh?
Na, just a f**king asshole.
Pick him up.
I hear the footsteps come closer, and then I'm lifted up to the sight of Anderson Blake holding a pair of channel locks. He doesn't even say a word, he just clamps my nose, squeezes, pulls, and twist. I feel and hear the cartilage in my nose snap and my eyes instantly begin to water and swell shut.
AHH, F**K! F**K YOU, YOU FAT F**KING REDNECK!
Oh yeah?
Yeah, and he said f**k me.
Well, f**k him.
You’re damn right f**k him, Tony.
My eyes haven’t even cleared up yet and I feel Anderson’s sausage fingers grab my left hand, then I feel the cold steel of the pliers clamp onto my thumb, after that, I feel my stomach turning as the nauseating feeling of my thumb begins broken rushes through me.
AHHH, F**K!
F**k who?
I say nothing, I simply mash my teeth together and let the pain wash over me. I’m not going to give this prick the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. He sees this, and it only aggravates him further. Anderson backhands me with the pliers across the face, cutting my cheek open. The impact snaps my head to the side and sends a ringing through my ear.
You ready to talk yet?
I turn my head back to look at him the best I can through my eyes that are clouded by my swollen flesh, water, and blood. I don’t say a word, I only spit my mouth full of blood into his face.
Anderson wipes his face off with the sleeve of his dress shirt and then I feel the pliers again, this time on the index finger of my left hand. Again I feel the clamping of steel, the pulling, the twisting, and the stomach-turning feeling of my knuckle being broken. I refuse to scream in pain again, instead, I bite my tongue. I’ll bit it in two before I give them the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. My head drops, I know the only thing keeping me alive at this point is them wanting to know who sent me. If I told them no one they would either not believe me or just kill me. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it is keeping me alive right now.
I’m going to leave you down here to think about it. When I come back you can either tell me who sent you, or we’re going to start pulling your f**king teeth out until you do tell us, or you run out of teeth and we just blow your f**ken brains out. Ya got me.
I slowly nod my head and listen to the footsteps that carry them away. I’m drowned in darkness as they turn out the lights, and I’m left alone with nothing but my thoughts and my pain. Jokes on them, those are the two oldest friends I have.
I lose track of time in the darkness and my thoughts have bounced all over the place, but currently, they have landed on Dylan Thomas.
Dylan, I wouldn’t say that I have ever respected you, but I would say that I never really cared about you. Over the past month though, that indifference has morphed into hate. Not hate for you thinking you can beat me; you shouldn’t be in the sport if you don’t think you can beat anyone you step in the ring with. But hate, because frankly, you’re faker than a dildo and softer than a pillow.
You want to brand yourself as the people’s champion, as someone who came up just like the rest of us. Get the f**k outta here with that bullsh*t. Do you think you can slop a couple ladles of soup on a tray and be looked at as a hero? A hero I made right? Dylan, you are so full of sh*t that flies come out when you open your mouth. No one is buying your bullsh*t, they see right through it and know you’re a phony. You’re like Killary campaigning at a black church in the south. I’m surprised you aren’t using a fake accent and changing your dialect.
I didn’t care about you before Dylan, but now I think you’re a piece of sh*t. Like a real piece of sh*t. Say, a piece of sh*t took a sh*t and then ate that sh*t, you are that piece of sh*t. I hate nothing worse than I hate a liar, and Dylan you are f**king liar. Originally, I just wanted to beat you at House of Cards and, pardon the pun, but move on up the ladder. But now… well, now I’m going to try and injure you. Try to take you out so that there is an open spot on the OCW for someone who actually deserves it, and isn’t a faker than their girls’ tits.
The ass whippen I gave you at Quarantined wasn’t even personal, it was business, but at House of Cards, oh, that ass whippen is going to be really personal. You want to thank me, well, you’ll have something to thank me for after House of Cards. You can thank me for making a man out of you, cause right now you are just a little b*tch playing pretend. That’s why you aren’t a winner and why no one in the back or in the crowd has a single shred of respect for you.
To thy own self be true, Dylan. You got some respect from the crowd at Quarantined for finally showing some guts, but ever since then, you’ve gone back to your old ways of pretending. Cosplaying as a Spartan, as an everyman, cosplaying as a f**king man in general. Come House of Cards, make-believe time is over because there will be two snaps. You snapping back to reality, and me snapping your f**king neck.
The lights flicker back on and I hear two pairs of footsteps on the wooden stairs that lead down to the basement. I had conjured a plan to escape, if it failed, I’d probably be killed, but if I didn’t even attempt it, I’d surely be killed. And me, well, I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.
Anderson and Tony stand at the other end of the room by the table with my belongings and their tools of persuasion.
You got a f**ken name for us?
I shake my head yes, and say “Mike”.
Let me guess, Mike Hunt?
No… Hawk.
Mike Hawk… you motherf**ker.
Tony grabs the pliers and walks to me, and I’m actually thankful it is Tony. Tony clamps the pliers onto my front tooth but has to lean in close to do so. So close he can’t see me slide my left hand out of the zip tie. Turns out with a broken thumb and index finger you can slide your hand through smaller places.
I’m glad it’s Tony, because he is dumber, pays less attention, and carries a Buck knife on his belt. Turned out you can grip a knife handle pretty well with just your middle, ring, and pinky finger. While Tony pulls on my tooth, I pull on his knife, and he doesn’t notice into the blade is plunged into his gut. And though there it will not rust; I will let him die.
Tony drops the pliers and clutches his stomach. This gives me time to cut my other hand free and move the knife to my right hand. Tony sees me and reacts by reaching behind his back, I’m assuming he’s going for a gun, or maybe just checking to see if he sh*t his pants. Either way, it doesn’t matter because I plunge the knife into his chest before he gets his hands on whatever he is after. I feel the warmth of his blood splatter over my face, and it feels satisfying.
Tony falls to the ground and begins what in this case will be the quick process of bleeding out. I turn my gaze up to Anderson who seems to be frozen. I don’t know if it is the shock of seeing Tony die or the fear of seeing me covered in Tony’s blood, but either way, Anderson is mine.
Anderson reaches for my .38 on the table, and I need to hurry up. I get lucky for once and Anderson is nervous, shaky, and sloppy. He gets a shot off but misses. The one-shot is all he gets off, as I close the distance and slash his wrist with the knife causing him to drop the gun. Anderson grabs his wrist and I smash the butt of the knife into his temple.
Anderson falls to the ground and begins to crawl for my gun, but I kick it away before kicking him in the head. Anderson flops to his back like a beached whale and I sit on his chest, leaning over him and grabbing him by his hair.
You want to know who sent me? It was Nicole Myers.
Who… who the f**k is that?
She was the only woman I ever loved, and one of the only good things I’ve ever known in life. You killed her and her family and now I’ve come to repay the favor.
I don’t…
I don’t him finish, I slight through his layer of multiple chins and into his jugular. His blood spurts upon my face, and into my mouth where I can taste it. It tastes like vengeance, and though it may not bring Nicole back, it does lift a bit of a burden from my shoulders, but not the amount I expected.
I don't know what I was thinking, wait yes, I do, I wasn't thinking at all. I was seeing red and charged in headfirst. I was a f**king idiot, and, and now I'm paying for it.
My pittance for this stupidity is a beating that may end with a bullet to the head.
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.
"Who sent you?", Tony asks before punching me in the jaw. Tony is the previously mentioned, "big, bald, Aryan-looking dude.", but I don't think that description does this big motherf**ker justice. F**k this racist prick is huge.
My mouth fills with blood and before I can spit it out, Tony does me the favor of emptying it with a left cross that snaps me to the side. What a nice guy Tony is.
One last time asshole, who sent you?
Ok, ok, it was Jenna.
Jenna? Jenna who?
Tolls.
Jenna Tolls?
I couldn't help myself. Tony didn't get it and as I saw him mouthing to name over and over, I began to laugh. My laughter was a giveaway. "You son of a b*tch", Tony says before kicking me in the chest so hard that my nipples touched. The force of the kick knocked me and the chair I’m zip-tied to backward. I land on the concrete with a thud and barely have time to catch my breath before Tony starts stomping.
"Who sent you", he continues to ask while stomping my guts in. Even if I was going to answer I wouldn't have a chance in-between stomp.
Tony finally tires out and takes a step back and looks at me while catching his breath.
You ready to talk?
I slowly shake my head yes and begin to answer, but once again am a victim to my own cynical nature.
Jack.
Jack, who?
Inimoff.
Jack Inimoff... you motherf**ker.
He got it that time. Tony comes closer, I'm assuming to stomp my head this time, but I'm saved by the ring of my phone. Tony stops and snarls and heads for the phone he has on a table at the end of the room. Sh*t, it's Jones. I was supposed to have a phone interview for Piledriver. Well, there goes my bonus points, and frankly, I need all the help in the rankings I could get.
Admittedly though, I have bigger problems at this current moment. I can't see anything but the ceiling, but I can hear and I hear someone coming down the steps. Then, I hear the voice, the same voice I heard scream in fear when I kicked his front door open and pointed my .38 at his head before Tony blindsided me, it was Anderson.
I can hear Anderson and Tony talking.
He talking yet?
Only outta his ass.
A tough guy huh?
Na, just a f**king asshole.
Pick him up.
I hear the footsteps come closer, and then I'm lifted up to the sight of Anderson Blake holding a pair of channel locks. He doesn't even say a word, he just clamps my nose, squeezes, pulls, and twist. I feel and hear the cartilage in my nose snap and my eyes instantly begin to water and swell shut.
AHH, F**K! F**K YOU, YOU FAT F**KING REDNECK!
Haha, you hear that, Tony? He called me a fat redneck.
Yeah, and he said f**k me.
Well, f**k him.
You’re damn right f**k him, Tony.
My eyes haven’t even cleared up yet and I feel Anderson’s sausage fingers grab my left hand, then I feel the cold steel of the pliers clamp onto my thumb, after that, I feel my stomach turning as the nauseating feeling of my thumb begins broken rushes through me.
AHHH, F**K!
F**k who?
I say nothing, I simply mash my teeth together and let the pain wash over me. I’m not going to give this prick the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. He sees this, and it only aggravates him further. Anderson backhands me with the pliers across the face, cutting my cheek open. The impact snaps my head to the side and sends a ringing through my ear.
You ready to talk yet?
I turn my head back to look at him the best I can through my eyes that are clouded by my swollen flesh, water, and blood. I don’t say a word, I only spit my mouth full of blood into his face.
Anderson wipes his face off with the sleeve of his dress shirt and then I feel the pliers again, this time on the index finger of my left hand. Again I feel the clamping of steel, the pulling, the twisting, and the stomach-turning feeling of my knuckle being broken. I refuse to scream in pain again, instead, I bite my tongue. I’ll bit it in two before I give them the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. My head drops, I know the only thing keeping me alive at this point is them wanting to know who sent me. If I told them no one they would either not believe me or just kill me. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it is keeping me alive right now.
I’m going to leave you down here to think about it. When I come back you can either tell me who sent you, or we’re going to start pulling your f**king teeth out until you do tell us, or you run out of teeth and we just blow your f**ken brains out. Ya got me.
I slowly nod my head and listen to the footsteps that carry them away. I’m drowned in darkness as they turn out the lights, and I’m left alone with nothing but my thoughts and my pain. Jokes on them, those are the two oldest friends I have.
If you feel alive
In a darkened room
Do you know the name
Of your solitude?
In a darkened room
Do you know the name
Of your solitude?
I lose track of time in the darkness and my thoughts have bounced all over the place, but currently, they have landed on Dylan Thomas.
Dylan, I wouldn’t say that I have ever respected you, but I would say that I never really cared about you. Over the past month though, that indifference has morphed into hate. Not hate for you thinking you can beat me; you shouldn’t be in the sport if you don’t think you can beat anyone you step in the ring with. But hate, because frankly, you’re faker than a dildo and softer than a pillow.
You want to brand yourself as the people’s champion, as someone who came up just like the rest of us. Get the f**k outta here with that bullsh*t. Do you think you can slop a couple ladles of soup on a tray and be looked at as a hero? A hero I made right? Dylan, you are so full of sh*t that flies come out when you open your mouth. No one is buying your bullsh*t, they see right through it and know you’re a phony. You’re like Killary campaigning at a black church in the south. I’m surprised you aren’t using a fake accent and changing your dialect.
I didn’t care about you before Dylan, but now I think you’re a piece of sh*t. Like a real piece of sh*t. Say, a piece of sh*t took a sh*t and then ate that sh*t, you are that piece of sh*t. I hate nothing worse than I hate a liar, and Dylan you are f**king liar. Originally, I just wanted to beat you at House of Cards and, pardon the pun, but move on up the ladder. But now… well, now I’m going to try and injure you. Try to take you out so that there is an open spot on the OCW for someone who actually deserves it, and isn’t a faker than their girls’ tits.
The ass whippen I gave you at Quarantined wasn’t even personal, it was business, but at House of Cards, oh, that ass whippen is going to be really personal. You want to thank me, well, you’ll have something to thank me for after House of Cards. You can thank me for making a man out of you, cause right now you are just a little b*tch playing pretend. That’s why you aren’t a winner and why no one in the back or in the crowd has a single shred of respect for you.
To thy own self be true, Dylan. You got some respect from the crowd at Quarantined for finally showing some guts, but ever since then, you’ve gone back to your old ways of pretending. Cosplaying as a Spartan, as an everyman, cosplaying as a f**king man in general. Come House of Cards, make-believe time is over because there will be two snaps. You snapping back to reality, and me snapping your f**king neck.
The lights flicker back on and I hear two pairs of footsteps on the wooden stairs that lead down to the basement. I had conjured a plan to escape, if it failed, I’d probably be killed, but if I didn’t even attempt it, I’d surely be killed. And me, well, I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.
Anderson and Tony stand at the other end of the room by the table with my belongings and their tools of persuasion.
You got a f**ken name for us?
I shake my head yes, and say “Mike”.
Let me guess, Mike Hunt?
No… Hawk.
Mike Hawk… you motherf**ker.
Tony grabs the pliers and walks to me, and I’m actually thankful it is Tony. Tony clamps the pliers onto my front tooth but has to lean in close to do so. So close he can’t see me slide my left hand out of the zip tie. Turns out with a broken thumb and index finger you can slide your hand through smaller places.
I’m glad it’s Tony, because he is dumber, pays less attention, and carries a Buck knife on his belt. Turned out you can grip a knife handle pretty well with just your middle, ring, and pinky finger. While Tony pulls on my tooth, I pull on his knife, and he doesn’t notice into the blade is plunged into his gut. And though there it will not rust; I will let him die.
Tony drops the pliers and clutches his stomach. This gives me time to cut my other hand free and move the knife to my right hand. Tony sees me and reacts by reaching behind his back, I’m assuming he’s going for a gun, or maybe just checking to see if he sh*t his pants. Either way, it doesn’t matter because I plunge the knife into his chest before he gets his hands on whatever he is after. I feel the warmth of his blood splatter over my face, and it feels satisfying.
Tony falls to the ground and begins what in this case will be the quick process of bleeding out. I turn my gaze up to Anderson who seems to be frozen. I don’t know if it is the shock of seeing Tony die or the fear of seeing me covered in Tony’s blood, but either way, Anderson is mine.
Anderson reaches for my .38 on the table, and I need to hurry up. I get lucky for once and Anderson is nervous, shaky, and sloppy. He gets a shot off but misses. The one-shot is all he gets off, as I close the distance and slash his wrist with the knife causing him to drop the gun. Anderson grabs his wrist and I smash the butt of the knife into his temple.
Anderson falls to the ground and begins to crawl for my gun, but I kick it away before kicking him in the head. Anderson flops to his back like a beached whale and I sit on his chest, leaning over him and grabbing him by his hair.
You want to know who sent me? It was Nicole Myers.
Who… who the f**k is that?
She was the only woman I ever loved, and one of the only good things I’ve ever known in life. You killed her and her family and now I’ve come to repay the favor.
I don’t…
I don’t him finish, I slight through his layer of multiple chins and into his jugular. His blood spurts upon my face, and into my mouth where I can taste it. It tastes like vengeance, and though it may not bring Nicole back, it does lift a bit of a burden from my shoulders, but not the amount I expected.
If you want the answer
If you want the truth
Look inside your empty soul
There you'll find the noose
If you want the truth
Look inside your empty soul
There you'll find the noose