Post by SYREN IS BEST on Apr 13, 2014 16:36:07 GMT -5
TIME: One year before the first L'Ardanthian incident.
A flashback in grayscale. A dream? A memory? Maybe a drug-induced hallucination? After all, this is the mind of one Scott Syren, a man who has never met a mind-altering chemical that didn't agree with him. Yet there is something very real and very urgent about the tropical, black-and-white world laid out before us.
He hovers above his own body. A ragged, sea-soaked shell of himself sprawled out on a sandy shore. Debris from a wreck of some sort, maybe a boat, is scattered around him. He does not move. For all intents and purposes, he is no more than another piece of meaningless wreckage that has floated pointlessly onto the shore.
Entire days force themselves through a minute-shaped hole in this dream world where time is irrelevant. A young boy walks along the shore and stops to poke at Scott Syren's motionless body with a stick--what a stupid dick, that seems uncalled for.
Nobody else comes.
Not until the fifth day.
It appears to be a woman at first. Upon closer inspection, it is definitely not. It is a long-haired man wearing nothing more than a purple bikini to cover up a mismatched pair of lumpy, scarred fake tits that seem to have the consistency of wads of newspaper and kleenex, and were almost certainly implanted in some third-world country.
The tropical transvestite pulls Scott Syren's body away from the water, dragging it several yards into the forest where a home of sorts has been fashioned out of cardboard boxes. But this is no rescue mission. The transvestite had only meant to suck on a dead man's dick--a rather macabre hobby indeed, but then we all have our demons--when he notices, against all odds, that the so-called corpse still draws breath!
More days pass in seconds as the transvestite nurses Scott Syren back to health with roots, shellfish, fresh water and rum. When he is finally strong enough to speak, it is a question.
“Who am I?”
The transvestite is momentarily stunned. He had prepared for any number of scenarios: confusion, denial, violence, even sexually-aggressive curiosity--even the when, where, and how? But not “who am I?”
So he replies honestly, “I don't know. I found you washed up on the beach and I thought you were dead. You're on St. Thomas. This is an abandoned, undeveloped lot in the northeast quarter of the island. There is an airport on the other side of the island. There are boats, grocery stores, doctors, a pharmacy... it's not as bad as it looks from here.” He shrugs and adjusts his tits.
Syren accepts this, and even seems to smile slightly as the situation is described. “Drink,” he demands, further testing his raw, sun-dried vocal chords.
The transvestite hands him a hollowed-out coconut filled with water. “My name is Berta,” he offers, but if Syren hears or cares, he doesn't show it.
Syren takes a sip, swishes the water around his mouth, spits it out and says, “No water. Rum.”
Berta stares at the man as he takes long pulls from a half-gallon bottle of cheap rum. Now that he is a man instead of a half-corpse, there is something about him that seems almost familiar. The new life behind those eyes transports Berta to a different time, several years ago, watching television with his son. Watching... watching what? This man drinking rum in his cardboard shack is no actor. He's built like... like an athlete? A football player? More like a thug. Built for violence and not much else.
“You're Scott Syren,” Berta blurts out suddenly.
Syren's eyes go wide and he freezes mid-drink. “Scott Syren...” he tries the name out on his own lips and slowly begins to smile. “That's right. I'm Scott Syren and I'm a... I'm a...”
“A professional wrestler,” Berta offers.
Syren breaks out in a fit of mad laughter. “A wrestler! Yes... I remember wrestling... and what... what exactly is wrestling?”
And then it begins to rain. Syren frowns as Berta's face fades into the gray mist. The rain is warm and foul-smelling. Syren tries to yell out. The memory is suddenly wrong; desynchronized; it didn't rain that day.
TIME: Present-Day
Color rushes back into the world and Scott Syren wakes up on a hotel bed. Berta's cock is a couple feet away from his face, spraying warm piss all over him.
“What the fuck?!” Syren roars.
Berta shakes his dick and tucks it back under his paisley skirt. “You wouldn't wake up,” Berta explains.
“So you pissed on my face?!”
Berta shrugs. “Standard escalation procedures. First there was the alarm clock, which you are obviously immune to. Then I punched you in the cock like thirty times, but you still didn't wake up. I only pissed on you after the teabagging had no effect. Jeez, Scott, I'm not an animal.”
“Whatever,” grumbles Syren, rolling out of bed. He runs his hands through his hair to wring some of the tranny piss out. “Don't look at my morning wood.”
“Well hurry up and get dressed. We have a big day.”
Syren groans as he pulls on a pair of aggressively-bedazzled black skinny jeans. He has finally changed his pants. “Tell me again why I agreed to do this...”
“Because you're a good friend? And because you were a total dick to me at Massacre last week?” offers Berta.
“No, that's not it. Probably because I was fucking wasted when you asked me.” He scans the room for any loose booze or drugs and finds a couple of pills on the floor--he doesn't remember what they are, but they look delicious--and a few swallows left in the bottom of a pint of Canadian Hunter.
“Don't get too fucked up too early,” Berta warns.
Syren responds with a look of pure hatred. He chews up his medicine and washes it down with the last swallow of whiskey. “Don't tell me how to get fucked up,” he warns.
“Okay, get fucked up. But just chill out. This will be fun, I promise. You're so stressed out lately from constantly watching your back, and with coordinating all the Operation Zero stuff... just forget about OCW for one day. All I asked for was one day where I get to call the shots. I'm pretty sure you can do that much for me, the man who rescued you and nursed you back to health when you washed up on a deserted beach six years ago; the man who helped you get your memory back twice...”
“First of all, you didn't rescue me. You salvaged what you thought was a corpse because you love to suck dead guys' cocks for whatever reason, and hey that's cool, and I'm glad you helped me not to be dead and shit, but let's not re-write history here. And as for my memory, there are still gaps. The wrestling moves, how to drive a car, how to jerk off, that shit all came back to me easily... remembering who I am... things that I've done... trying to figure out why everybody looks at me like they fucking hate me... that's another matter. No matter... Operation Zero will unveil all truths worth truthing... now that I have access to all the old videotape and all the old articles and shit... I don't know if I even want to know. If the person I am is really as big of a piece of shit as everybody seems to think, maybe it's better not to remember at all... and with JungleMan gone...”
“I know, pal. We all miss him." Berta rests a supportive hand on Syren's shoulder. "But fuck all that shit today, all right? You promised me I could call the shots today. So let's go visit my family, pal.”
Syren had been on his way to the door of the hotel room obligingly, but now stops dead in his tracks. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“So let's?”
“After that.”
“Pal?”
“Before that.”
“Visit my?”
Syren reaches down and thwacks Berta hard in the nutsack. “Don't play games with me. What the fuck are you talking about, family and shit? You're a woman with a huge dick and you were living alone in a stack of cardboard boxes when I first met you.”
Berta is wincing from the pain of the sack-thwap, but he grins through the pain. “You think I was always like this? That I just hatched from an egg wearing a purple bikini in the middle of the woods on a Caribbean island?”
“That wouldn't actually surprise me.”
“Yeah, I have a family. Or what's left of a family. An ex-wife. A son.” The beginnings of stupid-looking tears are forming in Berta's eyes as he mentions his son.
“This is going fucking suck. I can't even imagine what a worthless fuck-up your son must be.”
* * * * *
Syren and Berta walk up a shitty, suburban sidewalk towards a shitty, suburban one-story. Shitty suburban voices can be heard drifting out through the shitty, suburban screen door.
“Yes! Bacon!” shrieks an outrageously annoying boy's voice.
A tired woman's voice responds, “Get out of the fridge! I need that bacon to make BLT dip for your uncle's funeral!”
“What the fuck mom! Why don't you ever make BLT dip for me?!”
“Please, Scoot, let's don't do this today.”
“Maybe I should just die. Maybe then you'd make me some BLT dip, you stupidfugginBITCH.”
“Scoot, that's enough. Seriously.”
“Your son's name is Scoot? That's a hilarious coincidence,” whispers Scott Syren as they eavesdrop on the front patio.
“Not a coincidence really... I... I named him after my favorite wrestler at the time,” admits Berta.
“You...,” Scott's voice trails off into nothingness as he realizes one of his three remaining friends on this earth outside of Operation Zero is a closet Scoot Time fan... and another one of the three is Scoot Time himself. It is a moment of intense depression. “Oh my god, I think I'm going to be sick.”
“What the heck is your problem, pal? Scoot Time is cool!”
“I am so close to burning your house down and murdering your family right now, I don't even know how to express how much I suddenly hate you.”
“Well, just remember it's my day to call the shots, and I choose that you maybe don't murder my family, 'kay, pal? Just wait... I think you'll have a good time in spite of yourself if you just give it a chance...”
Syren mumbles a few dozen hateful curses. A haggard bitch of a woman comes to the door although they haven't knocked or rung the bell yet. She has graying hair and ten-pound-tube-of-hamburger-meat tits hanging down to her thighs. She was maybe pretty once... but then again, probably fucking not. “Can I help you?” she says, not recognizing Berta.
Berta smiles, but also looks like he's about to throw up. “Daddy's home!” his voice comes out as an impotent squeak.
"Shit in Satan's cunt,” swears the woman in disbelief. "What the fuck are you doing here Brian?"
“This is going well,” says Syren in an effort to relieve the tension, “I'm Scott Syren, the One True OCW World Champion and co-founder of Operation Zero, and I would like to burn your house down, but your transvestite ex-husband wouldn't let me.”
Everyone stares at each other for a while, which is made extra creepy by the fact that Syren is slowly getting a boner. It's not really his fault; it's the way those fucking skinny jeans ride his taint with a pleasing amount of pressure.
* * * * *
Things have calmed down by dinner time. Young Scoot is happy to have his, um, “father” back home.
“So,” says Syren--he is apparently the only one still having a shitty time--“How is school going, Scoot?”
“I fucking hate school!” whines the little red-headed fuck of a child. “BECAUSE I AM NO LONGER A PUPPET TO BE CONTROLLED BY ANY MASTER! See how dark and edgy I am?!”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” asks Syren, unimpressed.
“He's quoting his favorite wrestler, the Harley Queen,” explains the dumpy mother. Syren can see her trying to rub Berta's cock under the table. Berta is obviously not comfortable with that, but he remains silent. In fact, he has been silent almost the entire time they've been in the house, making things extra awkward for Syren... though the woman and young Scoot don't seem to mind.
Berta scoops the last spoonful of mediocre mashed potatoes into his mouth. He stands up with his tupperware cup full of iced tea, as if to make a speech. He clears his throat and adjusts the bulge of his cock under his miniskirt.
“Well,” the poorly-disguised fake woman begins, with a slight tremble in his voice. “I want to thank you both for welcoming me and my friend Scott back into your home.”
The woman and Scoot smile stupidly.
“I would also like to advise,” continues Berta, gaining more confidence, “that you both go to the free clinic tomorrow. You see, when you were in the kitchen preparing this delicious meal of frozen fishsticks, I bled and shot jizz into each of your drinks.”
Syren spits a mix of rum and iced tea--and apparently blood and cum???--across the table and begins to gag. The woman and Scoot stare at each other looking stupid and shocked.
“Not yours, Scott,” says Berta.
“You fuckin' poophead, you made me waste a swallow of rum.”
“Sorry. SO anyway, I think me and Scott will be leaving now, and like I was saying, thanks for the shitty meal, thanks for reminding me why I left, and I sincerely hope you forget to go to the free clinic and get checked for AIDS tomorrow... that is, if you even survive the explosion. Come on, Scott.”
Syren wastes no time getting up to follow Berta out the door. “Thanks for a lovely evening,” he mumbles.
As they walk back out to their Mercury Mariner, the house explodes behind them like a totally sick action movie and they simultaneously put on sunglasses and walk in slow-motion away from the fiery inferno 'cuz of how they're soooooo fucking awesome.
“That was rad,” says Syren. “I totally misunderestimated you.”
“Thanks, pal.”
“You realize that had absolutely nothing to do with anything though...”
Berta frowns in confusion. "Oh, you mean like wrestling-wise? Wait, are we doing a fucking promo right now? Did OCW cameras just catch me murdering my family?"
“Um... maybe? You know, I'm still not sure how that works... I'm not really worried about the evidence so much as... you know... match talk points and all that. Not that match talk points are a thing that would ever exist... I mean come on... winning wrestling matches based on what happens in your promos? That would be crazier than, you know, if President Dean was secretly a red-headed white guy from Texas, and that's obviously not something that is true either."
(OR IS IT???)
"Yeah... well... fuck it."
"True dat."
