Post by Outcast on Apr 20, 2022 8:39:27 GMT -5
The knife I had fashioned from scrap metal of the plane shakes in my hand as I scrape the bark off the end of a long stick. I'm trying to fashion a spear to puncture the jugular of the fattest hog on the island, but it's hard to do when your hand is shaking like Michael J. Fox during an earthquake. I shove the dull blade against the bark, pilling it off like the flesh I will soon rip from Biff's back. But, the shaking of my hand gives an uneven cut, and means more work to straighten and sharpen the point.
I drop the knife and hold my hand, but it doesn't stop the shaking. The shaking isn't just in that hand, it's in my entire body. It's the side effects of detox. This crash, this island, if anything good has come from it, it is that I have been forced to get clean.
My body shivers with trimmers, I wrap my arms around myself, and squeeze tightly. I begin to rock back and forth. I drop my head, and shut my eyes as tightly as I can. As I hold onto myself, I try to shove my mind anywhere else except for my current reality. The only problem with letting my mind wander, is there aren't many happy places for it to wander to.
My mind has drifted to the past, a last over twenty years ago to when I was far from the top of OCW, a time when I was merely the Television champion, and it was Bifford who sat atop the throne of OCW. Like anything Bifford sat upon, OCW would crumble under his weight. And though OCW would rebuild, and go through many cycles of waxing and waning, at this time OCW was very proud, and very strong.
It was a night of celebration, drinks were flowing, narcotics were being used in a less than discrete manner, and every mingled with verbal joust being thrown instead of fist. I sat in the corner, eyeing the talent pool of rats that had infested the party, and sipping on my rum and coke, that didn't hold a candle to the coke from the bathroom. My attention is pulled from scouting the talent to The Great One and Tommy Flame arguing over something pointless, and making threats that neither of them would follow up on.
This dick measuring contest, in which the measurements were done in millimetres, had drawn the attention of most everyone, and it had given me an opportunity to introduce myself to the royal round mound. I approached him with the swagger and confidence that only someone who had come from nothing to great success, and in their early twenties could have. I stuck out my hand to him and announced myself to him with an air or respect I had assumed would be shared.
Well, you know what happens when you assume. And that is exactly what happened.
His watermelon sized head, that say upon his shoulders, turned and looked at me with pure disgust. Odd, considering he was the one with sauce stains around his lip, and gravy running down his chin. Then with the worst mush-mouth I've ever encountered he asks, "who are you?".
Honestly, I was disappointed and taken aback. I was undefeated in OCW at the time, I was the brightest new star in the company, the shiniest new toy in the toy box. But to him, I was nothing.
Just another face in the crowd.
Just another mutt nipping at his heels.
Just another underlining begging for the scraps from his table.
I collected myself, and introduced myself to him. To my surprise a smile crept across his acre wide face. His arm went around my shoulders, and his voice boomed out.
"EVERYONE!"
His voice seemed as large as his gut. The crowd stopped and looked at him. And even though I stood in his shadow, I felt as if they were looking at me too.
"Everyone, meet the newest member of the OCW roster. OUTHOUSE!"
The crowd roared with laughter, I felt embarrassed, humiliated, and small. I seemed to shrink, and in my mind I was transported back to middle school. I slinked off like a dog with his tail between his legs.
"OUTHOUSE, BECAUSE HE'S THE SH*TS!!!"
That night as I tied the tourniquet around my arm I swore I'd never feel that way again, and as I shoved the plunger of the needle to full my veins with the black tar, I swore that one day I'd slice that fat neck of his open.
Little did I know it'd take another two decades before I got the opportunity. But, I know it is going to be worth the wait.
My body stops trembling and I open my eyes. I grab the stick and the crude blade and return to my work, but my thoughts are still on Bifford.
Big Titty Biff, yes I am calling you Biff, because I haven't longed to slit the throat of someone called Plethora for two decades. I know you like your new name, and like to pretend you are the Grim Reaper, but you will always and forever be the bully I swore revenge upon in my mind. You love pretending don't you Biff? You've even been pretending to be the Messiah to the natives of this island as of late. It only makes sense, they've never seen anyone, or anything as large as you before, so they must assume you are something supernatural.
There is only one similarity to Biff and the real Messiah. Like Jesus, Bifford will spew blood and expire when I pierce his side with a spear. But, unlike Jesus, Biff, you will not rise three days later. There is no tomb for Bifford, and no resurrection for Bifford. I will personally dig his grave, and stand watch as the worms devour his rotting carcass.
As I sharpen the point of the spear into a proper spike, I give an evil grin.
Well, I guess there are more similarities now that I really think about it. The similarities will come in the form of the pain and humiliation that Jesus felt at the hands of the Centurians. Just like Jesus, you will be beaten, spit upon, and humiliated. I'll pluck your beard from all one hundred and seventy chins you have. I'll black your eyes, bloody your nose, and rip apart your flabby flesh worse than a Cat Owning tails. I am going to publicly beat and embarrass you.
I am going to spill your blood, enough ro wash this whole island in it. I know it won't save anyone, but it will certainly help my mental state, and soothe my burning desire for vengeance.
I tap my finger against the tip of the spear, and it prices my finger. As I suck the blood off of the tip of my finger my mind once again fades to its memories. The all too familiar memory of the taste of my own blood.
This time though, I'm thirteen years old, and getting the sh*t kicked out of me by a seventeen year old named Phillip Bailey. Phil was upset that I had beat up his little brother Ross. Ross was the type of person who thought he could have whatever he wanted because his parents had money, and that included my girlfriend.
Well, he was right. But, along with my girlfriend, he also got a broken nose from me. What can I say, I've always been a spiteful and vengeful son of a b*tch.
Of course, big brother Phillip couldn't let his family name be dishonored by someone like me. At this point in my life I didn't stand much of a chance against Phillip. He was half a foot taller and probably a hundred pounds heavier, he was practically a full grown man, and I could count all my pubes on both hands.
What I did have that Phillip didn't though, is experience in getting my ass kicked by an older and bigger male. Notice, I say male and not man. I say it this way because Phillip wasn't a man, and neither was the older and larger male who regularly kicked my guts in, my father. And just like dear old dad, Phillip beat on me until he was exhausted. As Phillip was bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving as his lungs cried out for air.
That is when I rise.
I return to my current reality, where I pull the tip of the spear from the glowing embers of a small fire. The heat tempers the wood by fusing the wood grain together to create a harder surface, and a more effective weapon.
That is what the fires of hell have done to me here on Earth. They have tempered me into a hardened, and more effective weapon. My flesh is like titanium, my heart burnt dark as coal. You want to play God, Biff? I don't need to play, for I am the God of fire, and I am the God of OCW.
False idols fill the air with smoke and glass
Smoke flows from the tip of the spear as my breath blows against the glowing orange wood. The glowing illuminates my face as night begins to creep in with the Sun's increased hiding behind the canopy of the jungle.
Biff, you've already thrown your best at me. After I humiliated Vargas at Luck of the Violent you tried to pick your shot and piledrive me through the Earth. But you failed to take me out, just like you will fail at Technical Difficulties. You might want this OCW championship more than you want a trip to the Golden Corral, but you don't want the OCW championship as much as I want to beat you.
I've been a patient man, and I've waited for over two decades for this match Biff, and now that it is finally here, I won't waste the opportunity. I bested you in the Pyramid, but that wasn't enough for me, you had the excuse of having to fight your way to me, and we all know cardio isn't your strong suit. You had a valid argument, and that left room for doubt. After Technical Difficulties, there will be no doubt left as to who the God of OCW is.
The man who doesn't fear death, because he cannot be killed. The man who has been tempered by the fires of Hell on Earth. The man who will take your giant scythe, and use it to slice your gargantuan gut open.
The Master of Pain.
The Man….
No.
The God of Fire.
As the light begins to fade away I smile for maybe the first time since crashing on this island. I smile because as night falls, my hunt shall begin. The hunt for the second fattest hog on the island, for I hunt the fattest one at Technical Difficulties, and I will roast them both, for all to dine upon. I lift up my spear and head for the bush.
I drop the knife and hold my hand, but it doesn't stop the shaking. The shaking isn't just in that hand, it's in my entire body. It's the side effects of detox. This crash, this island, if anything good has come from it, it is that I have been forced to get clean.
My body shivers with trimmers, I wrap my arms around myself, and squeeze tightly. I begin to rock back and forth. I drop my head, and shut my eyes as tightly as I can. As I hold onto myself, I try to shove my mind anywhere else except for my current reality. The only problem with letting my mind wander, is there aren't many happy places for it to wander to.
My mind has drifted to the past, a last over twenty years ago to when I was far from the top of OCW, a time when I was merely the Television champion, and it was Bifford who sat atop the throne of OCW. Like anything Bifford sat upon, OCW would crumble under his weight. And though OCW would rebuild, and go through many cycles of waxing and waning, at this time OCW was very proud, and very strong.
It was a night of celebration, drinks were flowing, narcotics were being used in a less than discrete manner, and every mingled with verbal joust being thrown instead of fist. I sat in the corner, eyeing the talent pool of rats that had infested the party, and sipping on my rum and coke, that didn't hold a candle to the coke from the bathroom. My attention is pulled from scouting the talent to The Great One and Tommy Flame arguing over something pointless, and making threats that neither of them would follow up on.
This dick measuring contest, in which the measurements were done in millimetres, had drawn the attention of most everyone, and it had given me an opportunity to introduce myself to the royal round mound. I approached him with the swagger and confidence that only someone who had come from nothing to great success, and in their early twenties could have. I stuck out my hand to him and announced myself to him with an air or respect I had assumed would be shared.
Well, you know what happens when you assume. And that is exactly what happened.
His watermelon sized head, that say upon his shoulders, turned and looked at me with pure disgust. Odd, considering he was the one with sauce stains around his lip, and gravy running down his chin. Then with the worst mush-mouth I've ever encountered he asks, "who are you?".
Honestly, I was disappointed and taken aback. I was undefeated in OCW at the time, I was the brightest new star in the company, the shiniest new toy in the toy box. But to him, I was nothing.
Just another face in the crowd.
Just another mutt nipping at his heels.
Just another underlining begging for the scraps from his table.
I collected myself, and introduced myself to him. To my surprise a smile crept across his acre wide face. His arm went around my shoulders, and his voice boomed out.
"EVERYONE!"
His voice seemed as large as his gut. The crowd stopped and looked at him. And even though I stood in his shadow, I felt as if they were looking at me too.
"Everyone, meet the newest member of the OCW roster. OUTHOUSE!"
The crowd roared with laughter, I felt embarrassed, humiliated, and small. I seemed to shrink, and in my mind I was transported back to middle school. I slinked off like a dog with his tail between his legs.
"OUTHOUSE, BECAUSE HE'S THE SH*TS!!!"
That night as I tied the tourniquet around my arm I swore I'd never feel that way again, and as I shoved the plunger of the needle to full my veins with the black tar, I swore that one day I'd slice that fat neck of his open.
Little did I know it'd take another two decades before I got the opportunity. But, I know it is going to be worth the wait.
My body stops trembling and I open my eyes. I grab the stick and the crude blade and return to my work, but my thoughts are still on Bifford.
Big Titty Biff, yes I am calling you Biff, because I haven't longed to slit the throat of someone called Plethora for two decades. I know you like your new name, and like to pretend you are the Grim Reaper, but you will always and forever be the bully I swore revenge upon in my mind. You love pretending don't you Biff? You've even been pretending to be the Messiah to the natives of this island as of late. It only makes sense, they've never seen anyone, or anything as large as you before, so they must assume you are something supernatural.
There is only one similarity to Biff and the real Messiah. Like Jesus, Bifford will spew blood and expire when I pierce his side with a spear. But, unlike Jesus, Biff, you will not rise three days later. There is no tomb for Bifford, and no resurrection for Bifford. I will personally dig his grave, and stand watch as the worms devour his rotting carcass.
As I sharpen the point of the spear into a proper spike, I give an evil grin.
Well, I guess there are more similarities now that I really think about it. The similarities will come in the form of the pain and humiliation that Jesus felt at the hands of the Centurians. Just like Jesus, you will be beaten, spit upon, and humiliated. I'll pluck your beard from all one hundred and seventy chins you have. I'll black your eyes, bloody your nose, and rip apart your flabby flesh worse than a Cat Owning tails. I am going to publicly beat and embarrass you.
I am going to spill your blood, enough ro wash this whole island in it. I know it won't save anyone, but it will certainly help my mental state, and soothe my burning desire for vengeance.
I tap my finger against the tip of the spear, and it prices my finger. As I suck the blood off of the tip of my finger my mind once again fades to its memories. The all too familiar memory of the taste of my own blood.
This time though, I'm thirteen years old, and getting the sh*t kicked out of me by a seventeen year old named Phillip Bailey. Phil was upset that I had beat up his little brother Ross. Ross was the type of person who thought he could have whatever he wanted because his parents had money, and that included my girlfriend.
Well, he was right. But, along with my girlfriend, he also got a broken nose from me. What can I say, I've always been a spiteful and vengeful son of a b*tch.
Of course, big brother Phillip couldn't let his family name be dishonored by someone like me. At this point in my life I didn't stand much of a chance against Phillip. He was half a foot taller and probably a hundred pounds heavier, he was practically a full grown man, and I could count all my pubes on both hands.
What I did have that Phillip didn't though, is experience in getting my ass kicked by an older and bigger male. Notice, I say male and not man. I say it this way because Phillip wasn't a man, and neither was the older and larger male who regularly kicked my guts in, my father. And just like dear old dad, Phillip beat on me until he was exhausted. As Phillip was bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving as his lungs cried out for air.
That is when I rise.
I return to my current reality, where I pull the tip of the spear from the glowing embers of a small fire. The heat tempers the wood by fusing the wood grain together to create a harder surface, and a more effective weapon.
That is what the fires of hell have done to me here on Earth. They have tempered me into a hardened, and more effective weapon. My flesh is like titanium, my heart burnt dark as coal. You want to play God, Biff? I don't need to play, for I am the God of fire, and I am the God of OCW.
False idols fill the air with smoke and glass
Their lies so easy to sell when death is in our heads
Repent now or burn at the pyre
Bow down to the God of Fire
Smoke flows from the tip of the spear as my breath blows against the glowing orange wood. The glowing illuminates my face as night begins to creep in with the Sun's increased hiding behind the canopy of the jungle.
Biff, you've already thrown your best at me. After I humiliated Vargas at Luck of the Violent you tried to pick your shot and piledrive me through the Earth. But you failed to take me out, just like you will fail at Technical Difficulties. You might want this OCW championship more than you want a trip to the Golden Corral, but you don't want the OCW championship as much as I want to beat you.
I've been a patient man, and I've waited for over two decades for this match Biff, and now that it is finally here, I won't waste the opportunity. I bested you in the Pyramid, but that wasn't enough for me, you had the excuse of having to fight your way to me, and we all know cardio isn't your strong suit. You had a valid argument, and that left room for doubt. After Technical Difficulties, there will be no doubt left as to who the God of OCW is.
The man who doesn't fear death, because he cannot be killed. The man who has been tempered by the fires of Hell on Earth. The man who will take your giant scythe, and use it to slice your gargantuan gut open.
The Master of Pain.
The Man….
No.
The God of Fire.
As the light begins to fade away I smile for maybe the first time since crashing on this island. I smile because as night falls, my hunt shall begin. The hunt for the second fattest hog on the island, for I hunt the fattest one at Technical Difficulties, and I will roast them both, for all to dine upon. I lift up my spear and head for the bush.
The hunt is on.