Post by TheDeathDealer on Nov 10, 2022 15:05:09 GMT -5
I licked my wounds as I sulked back to my compound. My ego was more damaged than my body. I kept telling myself I didn’t come back to OCW to win matches, I came back to destroy. I had destroyed my opponents but had victory snatched from my clutches. I may not have picked up a win, but I had made my name known, and made it a name to fear.
Now is not the time to sulk. Now is not the time to get emotional. Now is the time to focus and continue my path of destruction that leads to my reign of terror. The next stop on the path is a man who may very well be considered a first-ballot Hall of Famer, Mike Zybala.
There he is
a hero in his day,
Everybody looked up to him,
He was well appreciated
loved and honored,
But look at him now,
Will he be remembered?
No,
I doubt it,
It seems all he received
was metal and a thank you,
For what?
Risking his life
that's all,
Where's the honor there?
Was it all worth it?
He gave everything that he could,
including his life,
Does anybody give a damn?
No...
and they never will.
Michael, when you are gone from OCW will anyone remember you? We will soon find out, as you have put your career on the line for an OCW championship match. Let me ask you Michael, was that a move of Ego, or of desperation? I believe it was your only hope of getting an OCW championship match because let's face it, you had no other way of getting one.
What are you going to have to show for your time spent in OCW when the dim lights of your career fade? Maybe, just maybe there is a small chance of a bronze bust in an honorary wing of a hall of fame that no one ever visits. Most likely though, it will be nothing but aches, pains, and scars. Michael, it will be my honor, and an absolute privilege to be one of those scars.
How about a giant one that runs across your forehead from ear to ear? I know you like to get bloody and violent Michael. I've seen your buried alive matches, your icicle death matches, and your hazardous ladder matches. So how about you and I get violent and bloody?
You don't have many matches left Michael, so, why not go out in a blaze of glory? Why not give the fans something to remember you by other than a joke of a backyard promotion? Is it because deep down you know that if you agree to a death match with me, that it will be the death of your career?
Michael when you accepted the challenge I laid down, you didn't pick up a mantel of courage, you laid down your life as a sacrifice. You volunteered to be the one to suffer the wrath of the All Consuming Fire. You will be laid upon the altar of pain and sacrificed to the God of hate and violence. You are the lamb that Victoria Strader has led to slaughter.
Your body and your career will be the sacrifices, but they will only pacify my unquenchable thirst for violence for a few moments. . I am a predator that never stops, and is always hungry for more. I thirst for blood. I crave pain. I am all-consuming, and soon, very soon Micheal, I will consume you. From there I will move on to the Rumble in the Bronx, where I will devour the entire roster of OCW. Nothing can, and nothing will stop me from burning OCW down to ashes, and then pissing on those ashes.
I pull off of the main road, while it isn’t exactly a bustling highway it is the last paved road before the compound. My Goodyear's creep over the gravels as I come over a small hill, which at the top gives an overview of the cabin I have fortified into a compound. Near the cabin, I see flashing red and blue lights. I turn the lights of my truck off, take my foot off the accelerator, and allow it to roll to a silent stop.
I study the scene, and it appears to only be one set of lights at the compound. I put the truck in park, exit the vehicle, and slip my way down the hill like a serpent toward the compound. I stop at the edge of the tall grass and peer from my hidden place to the front porch where I see a trooper knocking on the front door. I slowly begin to rise, ready to pounce like a cat onto a mouse, but stop as I notice another office coming from around the back of the house.
I sink back into hiding as I watch the overseer, which is the root word of officer. I watch this pot-bellied enforcer of unjust laws waddle around the house to his compatriot.
“Ain’t seen nuthen back der. Place all locked up, ain’t no lights on anywer, don’t look like a dang soul been here.”
His partner tips his cowboy hat back on his head and scratches his scalp as if he’s looking for a magical on-switch for his brain.
“Those hunters said they heard a heck of uh ruckus coming from here.”
“Well shoot, it’s quiet now. I ain’t hear a cotton picken thing but the hoot owls and the coyotes. Reckon we oughta just send of oh da boys back out in the mornin.”
“Let me just take one more look round back. You check the cellar door or the shed?”
“Dag on it, it’s too dag um dark for me to go crawlen in a snake hole or a spider nest Charlie.”
“Shoot, you a dag on puss. Get more than three donuts in ya or below fitty and you don’t wanna do nutten.”
“Ah kiss my arse.”
“Shoot, I ain’t got enough time left in my shift.”
For some reason, the heavy-set officer begins to laugh. This is curious to me, as his bravery and conditioning were just questioned, in a mocking fashion.
“Well I’m putting my plump old butt in the car, drink me a warm cup oh coffee and have another Krispy cream while you go check it out then.”
“Sounds about right. You best save me a pumpkin spice donut.”
The larger officer heads for the car, while the smaller and older one steps off the porch and heads to the rear of the cabin. I move through the grass like a lion stalking an antelope. I watch as he moves to the shed and shakes the door with a violent rumbling. The shaking of this tree bares no fruit.
Then he moves further away toward the cellar. This could be a problem, this is where I have kept him while I was away. At that distance, I cannot strike quickly from the grass. I check the other office, and just as he had said he sits in the car eating a donut and scrolling on his phone. I use the cover of the cloudy night and scurry from the tall grass behind the shed.
Now is not the time to sulk. Now is not the time to get emotional. Now is the time to focus and continue my path of destruction that leads to my reign of terror. The next stop on the path is a man who may very well be considered a first-ballot Hall of Famer, Mike Zybala.
There he is
a hero in his day,
Everybody looked up to him,
He was well appreciated
loved and honored,
But look at him now,
Will he be remembered?
No,
I doubt it,
It seems all he received
was metal and a thank you,
For what?
Risking his life
that's all,
Where's the honor there?
Was it all worth it?
He gave everything that he could,
including his life,
Does anybody give a damn?
No...
and they never will.
Michael, when you are gone from OCW will anyone remember you? We will soon find out, as you have put your career on the line for an OCW championship match. Let me ask you Michael, was that a move of Ego, or of desperation? I believe it was your only hope of getting an OCW championship match because let's face it, you had no other way of getting one.
What are you going to have to show for your time spent in OCW when the dim lights of your career fade? Maybe, just maybe there is a small chance of a bronze bust in an honorary wing of a hall of fame that no one ever visits. Most likely though, it will be nothing but aches, pains, and scars. Michael, it will be my honor, and an absolute privilege to be one of those scars.
How about a giant one that runs across your forehead from ear to ear? I know you like to get bloody and violent Michael. I've seen your buried alive matches, your icicle death matches, and your hazardous ladder matches. So how about you and I get violent and bloody?
You don't have many matches left Michael, so, why not go out in a blaze of glory? Why not give the fans something to remember you by other than a joke of a backyard promotion? Is it because deep down you know that if you agree to a death match with me, that it will be the death of your career?
Michael when you accepted the challenge I laid down, you didn't pick up a mantel of courage, you laid down your life as a sacrifice. You volunteered to be the one to suffer the wrath of the All Consuming Fire. You will be laid upon the altar of pain and sacrificed to the God of hate and violence. You are the lamb that Victoria Strader has led to slaughter.
Your body and your career will be the sacrifices, but they will only pacify my unquenchable thirst for violence for a few moments. . I am a predator that never stops, and is always hungry for more. I thirst for blood. I crave pain. I am all-consuming, and soon, very soon Micheal, I will consume you. From there I will move on to the Rumble in the Bronx, where I will devour the entire roster of OCW. Nothing can, and nothing will stop me from burning OCW down to ashes, and then pissing on those ashes.
I pull off of the main road, while it isn’t exactly a bustling highway it is the last paved road before the compound. My Goodyear's creep over the gravels as I come over a small hill, which at the top gives an overview of the cabin I have fortified into a compound. Near the cabin, I see flashing red and blue lights. I turn the lights of my truck off, take my foot off the accelerator, and allow it to roll to a silent stop.
I study the scene, and it appears to only be one set of lights at the compound. I put the truck in park, exit the vehicle, and slip my way down the hill like a serpent toward the compound. I stop at the edge of the tall grass and peer from my hidden place to the front porch where I see a trooper knocking on the front door. I slowly begin to rise, ready to pounce like a cat onto a mouse, but stop as I notice another office coming from around the back of the house.
I sink back into hiding as I watch the overseer, which is the root word of officer. I watch this pot-bellied enforcer of unjust laws waddle around the house to his compatriot.
“Ain’t seen nuthen back der. Place all locked up, ain’t no lights on anywer, don’t look like a dang soul been here.”
His partner tips his cowboy hat back on his head and scratches his scalp as if he’s looking for a magical on-switch for his brain.
“Those hunters said they heard a heck of uh ruckus coming from here.”
“Well shoot, it’s quiet now. I ain’t hear a cotton picken thing but the hoot owls and the coyotes. Reckon we oughta just send of oh da boys back out in the mornin.”
“Let me just take one more look round back. You check the cellar door or the shed?”
“Dag on it, it’s too dag um dark for me to go crawlen in a snake hole or a spider nest Charlie.”
“Shoot, you a dag on puss. Get more than three donuts in ya or below fitty and you don’t wanna do nutten.”
“Ah kiss my arse.”
“Shoot, I ain’t got enough time left in my shift.”
For some reason, the heavy-set officer begins to laugh. This is curious to me, as his bravery and conditioning were just questioned, in a mocking fashion.
“Well I’m putting my plump old butt in the car, drink me a warm cup oh coffee and have another Krispy cream while you go check it out then.”
“Sounds about right. You best save me a pumpkin spice donut.”
The larger officer heads for the car, while the smaller and older one steps off the porch and heads to the rear of the cabin. I move through the grass like a lion stalking an antelope. I watch as he moves to the shed and shakes the door with a violent rumbling. The shaking of this tree bares no fruit.
Then he moves further away toward the cellar. This could be a problem, this is where I have kept him while I was away. At that distance, I cannot strike quickly from the grass. I check the other office, and just as he had said he sits in the car eating a donut and scrolling on his phone. I use the cover of the cloudy night and scurry from the tall grass behind the shed.
I pull an old skill saw blade from the side of the shed as I watch the officer move to the door of the cellar. He grabs the door and gives it a violent rumble, and as he does so I ready myself to pounce. The rumbling bares no fruit again, and I sink back into the shadows as the officer shrugs his shoulders and turns away from the door.
As he takes his second step away from the cellar door a muffled cry for help is heard. The officer's eyes grow wide as he is startled. I see him reach for his gun and turn for the door. I have to move quickly as I see him kicking the door. With his third kick, the officer knocks the cellar door open, and he sees my victim hanging from a meat hook.
“HOLY SH!”
His final words are spoken as a plunge the rusty saw blade into the back of his skull. The officer falls as his brain stem is severed. His knees give out and his body falls like a deflated bouncy castle. I see my victim and watch that small glimmer of hope fading from his eyes.
“DA HELL WAS DAT NOISE!?!”
I suppose he had heard the ruckus over TikTok videos. I slump into the dark corner of the cellar as his heavy footsteps grow louder and louder. The only thing heavier than this man's steps is his deep breaths.
“OH MY GAWD! BOBBY!”
He immediately pulls his gun as he sees his partner's body. That pistol won’t help you, it’s already too late for you. I leap from the shadows, my hands grab the gun as I lock my arms over his and use my hips to press his body away. He is stronger than he looks, must be a former athlete who has let himself go. I pull his arms, pop my hips, and send his body flipping over me to the cellar floor.
In the midst of the throw, the gun escapes his hands and is lost in the shadows. The officer is frantically searching for it, and fear overtakes him as he cannot find it. I prepare to go for the kill, but then my prisoner wraps his legs around my head. It is my fault for assuming I had beaten and tortured all the fight out of him.
His legs squeeze around my throat, and I see the officer starting to gather his thoughts as he grabs his taser. The officer is still riddled with fear causing his shot to be hasty, and his aim sloppy. I turn to the side, but still, one of the barbs from the taser enters my shoulder, and the other enters my prisoner's leg. After all that I have been through, this taser is nothing more than a slight tickle. What’s a few hundred volts when you’ve had your skin ripped from your flesh down to the bone?
The shock is enough to break the prisoner's grip from around my throat, as I cast his legs off of my shoulder and charge the heavy-set trooper. In a panic, he tries to pull his truncheon, but I easily grab it from his hand before he can even fully extend it.
A hard headbutt to the nose drops the chubby man. I extend the truncheon and begin swinging at his head until I see grey matter spewing. I drop the baton and take a moment to catch my breath as I turn back to my prisoner. I see defeat, and for the first time since he has been in my clutches, fear in his eyes. I wipe the splattered blood from my face as I look at him.
Great, now I’ve got to find a new place to hide you.
I suppose he had heard the ruckus over TikTok videos. I slump into the dark corner of the cellar as his heavy footsteps grow louder and louder. The only thing heavier than this man's steps is his deep breaths.
“OH MY GAWD! BOBBY!”
He immediately pulls his gun as he sees his partner's body. That pistol won’t help you, it’s already too late for you. I leap from the shadows, my hands grab the gun as I lock my arms over his and use my hips to press his body away. He is stronger than he looks, must be a former athlete who has let himself go. I pull his arms, pop my hips, and send his body flipping over me to the cellar floor.
In the midst of the throw, the gun escapes his hands and is lost in the shadows. The officer is frantically searching for it, and fear overtakes him as he cannot find it. I prepare to go for the kill, but then my prisoner wraps his legs around my head. It is my fault for assuming I had beaten and tortured all the fight out of him.
His legs squeeze around my throat, and I see the officer starting to gather his thoughts as he grabs his taser. The officer is still riddled with fear causing his shot to be hasty, and his aim sloppy. I turn to the side, but still, one of the barbs from the taser enters my shoulder, and the other enters my prisoner's leg. After all that I have been through, this taser is nothing more than a slight tickle. What’s a few hundred volts when you’ve had your skin ripped from your flesh down to the bone?
The shock is enough to break the prisoner's grip from around my throat, as I cast his legs off of my shoulder and charge the heavy-set trooper. In a panic, he tries to pull his truncheon, but I easily grab it from his hand before he can even fully extend it.
A hard headbutt to the nose drops the chubby man. I extend the truncheon and begin swinging at his head until I see grey matter spewing. I drop the baton and take a moment to catch my breath as I turn back to my prisoner. I see defeat, and for the first time since he has been in my clutches, fear in his eyes. I wipe the splattered blood from my face as I look at him.
Great, now I’ve got to find a new place to hide you.
I grab him around the waist and hoist him off the hook. I her his flesh ripping, and his bones chipping as I carelessly pull him from the hook. I feel his body go limp as he passes out.
I'm not done with you yet.