Post by cyriddle on Sept 19, 2021 17:41:56 GMT -5
“Utter bollocks,” Cyrus muttered under his breath as he tossed his phone to the gunmetal gray, linen woven couch cushion to his right. Having just disconnected his call with Jason Cashe, the frustration inside him began to escalate with every passing second of absent effect of the “substances” he had ingested. He proceeded to tilt his head back and glare into the ceiling of his abode, clearing his mind of any and all hindrances which may be preventing the desired response. For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, attempting to envision himself in another place entirely. It was then that a disturbing sulfuric aroma infiltrated his senses. Riddle’s face twisted into an expression of offense, with pure disgust becoming accented by the wrinkling of his forehead. However, matters became more questionable as he felt a subtle breeze through his beard and against the lids of his eyes, causing him to open them slowly and with great caution.
Gone was the couch and the living room he was in just moments before, which were now replaced with a park bench and surrounding nature. Trees overhead stood prominently, boasting decades of growth and strength by their formidable height and circumference. But, the troubling sight of a red sky told him immediately that this was not the “dream” state he had imagined. This was far more nefarious. He rose to his feet, surveying the area around him. He was alone, to the extent that he did not hear even the common sound of a bird chirping. He did, however, know his location. It was one he had frequented many times. Central Park, just around the knole from where he and Izzy would play during their time together.
Cyrus wandered slowly, taking each step methodically as if he were anticipating a mine field being below his feet. “Hello!” he yelled out, squinting his eyes and placing the edge of his hand against his forehead, attempting to look farther without the red hue of the atmosphere obstructing his range. Once more he yelled out, “Hello! Anyone out there?! Cashe?!”
“Here papa!” he heard faintly from the other side of a hedge to his left. The little girl’s voice was identified immediately. But, could it really be? “Izzy?” he asked out loud, perplexed and feeling a bit nauseated with each step in the direction of where he thought he had heard his daughter. After a few seconds pause, he heard a giggling from the same spot, creating an even more eerie feeling in the pit of his stomach. In response, he hurried his pace, finding himself on the other side of the hedge, with Izzy’s back to him.
“Ducks, papa.” she said with the most adorable of tones. Cyrus broke his worry long enough to let out a chuckle. “Yeah, you love your ducks, I know.” He nodded, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“No… you duck.” she said with an angrier, almost visceral growl in her tone. “Pardon?” Cyrus, now kneeling, tilted his head to the side and began to turn Izzy around, only to be sent on his back harshly by her inhuman strength. In her left hand, which now rested on his chest, was not a duck, but tiny bones from what he assumed was once a duck. Sweat began to bead down his face as he attempted to lift his head, but Izzy stared at him with cold, all black eyes before morphing right before Cyrus. “Fuckinell…”
Riddle’s heart began to race, panic written across his face in such abundance that he could not poker face his way out of this nightmare. Pressed against his throat were razor sharp blades attached to a brown glove. The horribly burnt ,now staring into his, smiled with sinister intent. “This is your hell, Riddle.” The growl of Freddy couldn’t be disputed. Cyrus, rarely at a loss for words, couldn’t bring himself to speak, only look on. “Your guilt, your avoidance of being a real father. This is your hell, this is my world. Join me.” He laughed jovially as Cyrus shook his head.
“You’re… not… real.” Cyrus stated emphatically, which forced the smile from Freddy’s face as he pressed one of the claws into Riddle’s neck just enough to breach the surface of his skin and pool some blood, which now dripped from the stainless steel. “Am I not?” Freddy asked with obvious sarcasm. “You made me real. You and that partner of yours. I’m not a fan of the name Jason, but you two letting me out to play, I have to thank you for. You’re mine now.”
Freddy attempts to swipe at Cyrus’ throat, but he pushes him off quickly, connecting with a fight or flight punch that knocks the horror icon on his back. “Fuck you, ya prick. I belong to nobody.” Riddle throws up his two finger salute and begins to walk backward, clutching the cut on his neck, grateful that no major artery had been cut. As he turns, he is stopped in his tracks by Freddy, who now stands face to face with him. “I’ll tell you what, show your friend your neck, ask him about our visit together, and I’ll be back for you. The nightmares only get worse.” Freddy lifts his gloved hand up, but instead of claws, syringes appear on the fingers. He stabs them into Cyrus’ chest before he can react.
A blood curdling scream is heard in Riddle’s ear as he shoots up from his couch, fully drenched in sweat, with blood on his white t-shirt from his neck to his chest. He rips the shirt off without hesitation, throwing it down and looking around his condo with heavy breaths disturbing the otherwise tranquil atmosphere. “Fuck was that... can’t be.”
He stumbles over to his phone, panic stricken as he sends a message to Cashe. “Meet me asap, wherever you can.” He holds his neck and slumps to his floor, looking around with paranoia and breathing a sigh of relief that his chest had no puncture marks.
---------------------------------------------------
“White Chapel. Let’s journey down to Duval Street, formally Dorset. Formerly a haven of crime and prostitution, it was completely remodeled and all attempts to bury the history have been successful, sans the textbook and google searches that lend lessons in the significance of the area.”
Cyrus Riddle stands at the window of his New York condo, overlooking Central Park, while sipping on a glass of single malt whiskey. For formality purposes, he is dressed in a three piece black suit, calling back to his previous on-camera ensembles which matched.
“I’ve been there, I’ve experienced the mind altering allure that the area provides. Knowing the history, feeling the unsettling ambience of unsolved murders that even the most decadent redecoration cannot mask. Fun fact, one of the victims was stabbed thirty-nine times. Imagine the commitment it takes to wield a blade and perform a high volume act of that magnitude. It is as equally impressive as it is heinous. But, I suppose you need to be twisted enough to appreciate the stamina in that particular area of the human psyche, yeah?”
The reflection of Riddle’s face in the glass reveals a small chuckle before he takes a sip from his glass and lets out a slight hiss after, exhaling quietly and nodding to approve of the quality of his drink.
“Let’s look at the matter at hand, shall we. Jason Cashe, former enemy, turns into friend, and in some humorous twist of fate has now become one of the handful of people in this industry that I can trust and rely upon. Funny how the faces in the foxhole can change, completely obliterating any and all previous turmoil that existed. I set his bus on fire once upon a time, and in return, he set me on fire. I still have scars from that match. That’s the comedy and tragedy dichotomy though, isn’t it? Once bitter rivals, now great friends, partnering up and combatting a world that wishes we would cease to exist. Betrayal, slander, violence. Now, we stand united. Everyone is entitled to their own set of beliefs, but I have always believed that you can never truly know a man until you’ve seen the barbaric sides of him. When you can collide with such perfection, you know you can align with the same ferocity. Now, we are here. OCW, land of the misfits. The eccentric dine together here in perfect harmony in order to create a place of acceptance and competition. And apparently, it also allows in the strays and gives them opportunity. Enter Them No Good Bastards.”
“Fellas, I hope that you are the champions you fancy yourselves to be, and I’m not one to usually cling on to hope. I hope that you understand what’s in store for you on October tenth. The experience, the resiliency, the unmitigated violence. I hope you are prepared for the unorthodox, never complacent stylings that Jason and I have to bring to this match. As it pertains to me, I’ve held many championships, ten of which being tag team titles. I’ve wrestled around the world, in tournaments, in some of the most brutal matches imaginable, and I’ve succeeded in cementing my legacy in this business. Despite the attempts of a chosen few to write me off or soil my name, still I rise to the occasion. I show up to fight, I show up to see victory, and I show up to leave a permanent impression on any and all brave enough to stand across from me in a ring.”
“I understand that this is your match, given your status as the champions. But do not get the narrative jaded in any way, because the championship status is literally your only crutch. Any ring I step into is my ring, and we are doing this in my home. This is Riddle territory. I was born, raised, and trained in London. I fought on the underground, sharpened my mind by the very streets you will travel to get to the building. I hold the proverbial knife by the handle, and you hold the blade. The truth of this match will penetrate your chests, the titles are your heartbeat in OCW, and I plan to rip them directly from your chest after the incision. No amount of sophomoric bravado or rhyme schemes can intimidate Cashe and myself. We come from far more threatening backgrounds than any threat you two numpties could pose on your best day.”
Riddle finishes the last sip and puts his eye up to the glass, which has a unique design in the glass.
“Your future, in just one match with me, will look like a kaleidoscope of suffering and pain. I don’t operate in the lighthearted realm of life, nor do I pretend that I’m not one sick son of a bitch when the time calls for it. Ask around, search the name, you’ll see for yourself that the work matches the words. I am the wall a runner hits in the middle of a marathon. I am the tractor trailer to your Gage, the machete to your two teens fucking in a cabin. I am the catalyst to your flatline, the venom to your blood. You will see me, you will feel me, you will succumb to me. October tenth, Master of Macabre… you will see that I hold a bloody Ph.D. See you around, gentlemen, count the days, because the entire world shifts for you in a few short weeks.”
Riddle flashes a smirk and raises his eyebrow as the feed fades to black.
Gone was the couch and the living room he was in just moments before, which were now replaced with a park bench and surrounding nature. Trees overhead stood prominently, boasting decades of growth and strength by their formidable height and circumference. But, the troubling sight of a red sky told him immediately that this was not the “dream” state he had imagined. This was far more nefarious. He rose to his feet, surveying the area around him. He was alone, to the extent that he did not hear even the common sound of a bird chirping. He did, however, know his location. It was one he had frequented many times. Central Park, just around the knole from where he and Izzy would play during their time together.
Cyrus wandered slowly, taking each step methodically as if he were anticipating a mine field being below his feet. “Hello!” he yelled out, squinting his eyes and placing the edge of his hand against his forehead, attempting to look farther without the red hue of the atmosphere obstructing his range. Once more he yelled out, “Hello! Anyone out there?! Cashe?!”
“Here papa!” he heard faintly from the other side of a hedge to his left. The little girl’s voice was identified immediately. But, could it really be? “Izzy?” he asked out loud, perplexed and feeling a bit nauseated with each step in the direction of where he thought he had heard his daughter. After a few seconds pause, he heard a giggling from the same spot, creating an even more eerie feeling in the pit of his stomach. In response, he hurried his pace, finding himself on the other side of the hedge, with Izzy’s back to him.
“Ducks, papa.” she said with the most adorable of tones. Cyrus broke his worry long enough to let out a chuckle. “Yeah, you love your ducks, I know.” He nodded, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“No… you duck.” she said with an angrier, almost visceral growl in her tone. “Pardon?” Cyrus, now kneeling, tilted his head to the side and began to turn Izzy around, only to be sent on his back harshly by her inhuman strength. In her left hand, which now rested on his chest, was not a duck, but tiny bones from what he assumed was once a duck. Sweat began to bead down his face as he attempted to lift his head, but Izzy stared at him with cold, all black eyes before morphing right before Cyrus. “Fuckinell…”
Riddle’s heart began to race, panic written across his face in such abundance that he could not poker face his way out of this nightmare. Pressed against his throat were razor sharp blades attached to a brown glove. The horribly burnt ,now staring into his, smiled with sinister intent. “This is your hell, Riddle.” The growl of Freddy couldn’t be disputed. Cyrus, rarely at a loss for words, couldn’t bring himself to speak, only look on. “Your guilt, your avoidance of being a real father. This is your hell, this is my world. Join me.” He laughed jovially as Cyrus shook his head.
“You’re… not… real.” Cyrus stated emphatically, which forced the smile from Freddy’s face as he pressed one of the claws into Riddle’s neck just enough to breach the surface of his skin and pool some blood, which now dripped from the stainless steel. “Am I not?” Freddy asked with obvious sarcasm. “You made me real. You and that partner of yours. I’m not a fan of the name Jason, but you two letting me out to play, I have to thank you for. You’re mine now.”
Freddy attempts to swipe at Cyrus’ throat, but he pushes him off quickly, connecting with a fight or flight punch that knocks the horror icon on his back. “Fuck you, ya prick. I belong to nobody.” Riddle throws up his two finger salute and begins to walk backward, clutching the cut on his neck, grateful that no major artery had been cut. As he turns, he is stopped in his tracks by Freddy, who now stands face to face with him. “I’ll tell you what, show your friend your neck, ask him about our visit together, and I’ll be back for you. The nightmares only get worse.” Freddy lifts his gloved hand up, but instead of claws, syringes appear on the fingers. He stabs them into Cyrus’ chest before he can react.
A blood curdling scream is heard in Riddle’s ear as he shoots up from his couch, fully drenched in sweat, with blood on his white t-shirt from his neck to his chest. He rips the shirt off without hesitation, throwing it down and looking around his condo with heavy breaths disturbing the otherwise tranquil atmosphere. “Fuck was that... can’t be.”
He stumbles over to his phone, panic stricken as he sends a message to Cashe. “Meet me asap, wherever you can.” He holds his neck and slumps to his floor, looking around with paranoia and breathing a sigh of relief that his chest had no puncture marks.
---------------------------------------------------
“White Chapel. Let’s journey down to Duval Street, formally Dorset. Formerly a haven of crime and prostitution, it was completely remodeled and all attempts to bury the history have been successful, sans the textbook and google searches that lend lessons in the significance of the area.”
Cyrus Riddle stands at the window of his New York condo, overlooking Central Park, while sipping on a glass of single malt whiskey. For formality purposes, he is dressed in a three piece black suit, calling back to his previous on-camera ensembles which matched.
“I’ve been there, I’ve experienced the mind altering allure that the area provides. Knowing the history, feeling the unsettling ambience of unsolved murders that even the most decadent redecoration cannot mask. Fun fact, one of the victims was stabbed thirty-nine times. Imagine the commitment it takes to wield a blade and perform a high volume act of that magnitude. It is as equally impressive as it is heinous. But, I suppose you need to be twisted enough to appreciate the stamina in that particular area of the human psyche, yeah?”
The reflection of Riddle’s face in the glass reveals a small chuckle before he takes a sip from his glass and lets out a slight hiss after, exhaling quietly and nodding to approve of the quality of his drink.
“Let’s look at the matter at hand, shall we. Jason Cashe, former enemy, turns into friend, and in some humorous twist of fate has now become one of the handful of people in this industry that I can trust and rely upon. Funny how the faces in the foxhole can change, completely obliterating any and all previous turmoil that existed. I set his bus on fire once upon a time, and in return, he set me on fire. I still have scars from that match. That’s the comedy and tragedy dichotomy though, isn’t it? Once bitter rivals, now great friends, partnering up and combatting a world that wishes we would cease to exist. Betrayal, slander, violence. Now, we stand united. Everyone is entitled to their own set of beliefs, but I have always believed that you can never truly know a man until you’ve seen the barbaric sides of him. When you can collide with such perfection, you know you can align with the same ferocity. Now, we are here. OCW, land of the misfits. The eccentric dine together here in perfect harmony in order to create a place of acceptance and competition. And apparently, it also allows in the strays and gives them opportunity. Enter Them No Good Bastards.”
“Fellas, I hope that you are the champions you fancy yourselves to be, and I’m not one to usually cling on to hope. I hope that you understand what’s in store for you on October tenth. The experience, the resiliency, the unmitigated violence. I hope you are prepared for the unorthodox, never complacent stylings that Jason and I have to bring to this match. As it pertains to me, I’ve held many championships, ten of which being tag team titles. I’ve wrestled around the world, in tournaments, in some of the most brutal matches imaginable, and I’ve succeeded in cementing my legacy in this business. Despite the attempts of a chosen few to write me off or soil my name, still I rise to the occasion. I show up to fight, I show up to see victory, and I show up to leave a permanent impression on any and all brave enough to stand across from me in a ring.”
“I understand that this is your match, given your status as the champions. But do not get the narrative jaded in any way, because the championship status is literally your only crutch. Any ring I step into is my ring, and we are doing this in my home. This is Riddle territory. I was born, raised, and trained in London. I fought on the underground, sharpened my mind by the very streets you will travel to get to the building. I hold the proverbial knife by the handle, and you hold the blade. The truth of this match will penetrate your chests, the titles are your heartbeat in OCW, and I plan to rip them directly from your chest after the incision. No amount of sophomoric bravado or rhyme schemes can intimidate Cashe and myself. We come from far more threatening backgrounds than any threat you two numpties could pose on your best day.”
Riddle finishes the last sip and puts his eye up to the glass, which has a unique design in the glass.
“Your future, in just one match with me, will look like a kaleidoscope of suffering and pain. I don’t operate in the lighthearted realm of life, nor do I pretend that I’m not one sick son of a bitch when the time calls for it. Ask around, search the name, you’ll see for yourself that the work matches the words. I am the wall a runner hits in the middle of a marathon. I am the tractor trailer to your Gage, the machete to your two teens fucking in a cabin. I am the catalyst to your flatline, the venom to your blood. You will see me, you will feel me, you will succumb to me. October tenth, Master of Macabre… you will see that I hold a bloody Ph.D. See you around, gentlemen, count the days, because the entire world shifts for you in a few short weeks.”
Riddle flashes a smirk and raises his eyebrow as the feed fades to black.