CEO
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Years Old
I bury hatchets, but I keep maps to where I put 'em.
601 POSTS & 58 LIKES
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Post by Eden on Sept 21, 2020 14:13:10 GMT -5
Broadcasting through FXX and Netflix from The Sanatorium Arena in Serenity, CaliforniaRoleplay Deadlines: Friday, September 25th, 2020 at 9 PM PST, 12 AM EST, 11 PM CT(US) Saturday, September 26th, 2020 at 1 AM(UK)Roleplay Limit2 RPs, up to 1000 words apiece OR A single RP, up to 2000 words Main Event:Outsider versus V
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Post by Deleted on Sept 21, 2020 23:06:59 GMT -5
ɾ α ԃ | 𝓬 α ɬ VιƈҽVҽɾʂα
Hell. It's more than a fucking place,
it's a goddamn experience.
Try having your face mutilated because you can't show it in public after a scandal.
Driven by an insatiable need to win. Anything; everything.
This is my life, fuck-face. Yeah, I cheated. But I won. I paid the price. Keep your sympathy. Your heartfelt condolences. Your endless need to say more. Your blood will run down my lips.
Down my chin while I lick my delicious fingertips.
You think you want it more than me? Pray to whatever you believe.
Just bleed,
V.
(continued from measures of why)
Soho, New York.
Polished black shoes exit a Lincoln town car in a dimly lit alleyway.
Somewhere in the heart of the city's underbelly.
"Organized crime- doesn't look very fucking organized to me."
What's left of Gabe Reno's face is shadowed by his hand, shielding the one barely operational blinking street light. He walks through trying to hide his still recovering flesh from any sensitivity. Up some stairs, the silent Chauffeur opens a rod iron door for him. Music plays in the form of Rockstar by Post Malone and 21 Savage. A red ambiance vibes out the room full of druggies sliding down cheap leather booths in the back of some scummy club. Scantily clad desperate whores eye the well dressed pair. They brush past, walking into a beaded doorway, down a hallway full of junkies full of needles and/or dread. From the inside of a room the doorknob turns. Unmistakable sounds of metal chambers cocking behind the unyielding focus on the knob. It creeks open slowly as a full fledged bullet barrage suffocates the ricocheting wood from every angle. Thud. The sound of a body hits the floor. The clips finish off- reloading commences. Someone in a tacky Hawaiian shirt passing in front, peaking out to check the damage, pointing his pistola around the hole filled corner. To the right, shattered wood and a trail of blood. To the left, a face staring back at him that looks exactly like his father's. Tears stream down the mans face, still in his dirty blue boxers after being caught in the act by the knob turn. His hands shivering in disbelief, tenderly approaching his dead father's face.
"Mi Hijo... que tal un abrazo?"
(My son... how about a hug?)
He openly weeps embracing his father after so many years of emptiness; tortured memories, abandoned promises that could never be fulfilled. The love pours through his every pore. Then the blood. Convulsing, dribbling spittles of thick red life down his chin. He recoils, as Reno removes the shiv from between two of his ribs. Gabe takes the gun from his locked shaking hand, then pistol whips him forward, then backward, then forward- chopping him down with his own instrument of fate. A pool collects, Reno moves his polished shoes just in time to avoid saturation. Inside the room, items crashing over from someone trying to run away in a struggle. The Chauffeur emerges from room shadows as Gabe steps inside. Holding a fist full of the man's hair, the Chauffeur presents him straight armed and motionless, indifferent to the wild flailing. The man finally rests with a defeated certain look on his face. Gabe approaches him step by step, his deformed hideous face now half peeled. The man squirms but is firmly held in place. Horror reflects in his pupils showing the horrible sight as Reno disturbingly pulls the skin off his own face, then places it on the man's who screams begging to be let free. Reno gets closer and whispers in his ear.
"Tu hiciste esto."
(You did this to me.)
Reno carves something into his struggling forehead with the shiv. He grabs the mans jaw with his right hand, forcing him to look at his putrid disposition. Gabe smiles eerily, then uses his polished black dress shoes to do a little demented tap dance. Squealing and crying from the mental and physical torment, the man falls to his knees, then is pulled up again by the Chauffeur still moaning. Gabe struts over to finish his routine with a shushing index finger over the man's lips. He looks at Gabe, tears streaming down his face. Reno turns back around for another move, then spins violently nailing a fatal shiv knife throw between his eyes. He crumbles as the Chauffeur lets go, pulling out a small bottle of antiseptic to disinfect his hands. Followed by pulling a folded mylar sheet out of his breast coat pocket, tossing it like a warm sheet to begin the clean up process. He nods at Reno, who is rubbing the blood splatter down his fresh fleshy face and neck like a vampire bathed in precious lifeblood. The camera pans down to the sheet covered victim bleeding out as the shocked expression fades to pale indifference. The carving on his forehead reading "ᒍᑌᔕT ᗷᒪEEᗪ." Reno walks over to the coffee table, moving dirty magazines, smokey cigar ashtrays, and crinkled up Spanish news papers. Rising from behind, the angle catches a deep chuckle turning into full blown laughter. Over his shoulder we zoom in to see the print of a receipt from somewhere in Soho. The bill is credited to a "Baby Boy." Further scroll down the weathered thermal paper reveals an address- Reno still endlessly tickled at how easy his prey has made this. Gabe turns the paper over, stopping in his tracks in an incensed chilling focus... "owns a gym in his hometown, Soho." Reno's eyes light up with infernal delight.
ᒍᑌᔕT ᗷᒪEEᗪ
We hear the distinct sound of liquid draining from a canister. Crossing a flint strip, a bare red match tip ignites in front of the lens. Widening steadily, the camera follows the flame trail down the igniter fluid across a window pane, up the roof and into the smashed drenched glass. Widening still, gym equipment ignites. A deformed face glows red, Reno's silhouette becoming clear; like his nauseatingly demented smile.
(word count 1000)
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Post by Deleted on Sept 25, 2020 1:17:55 GMT -5
ɾ α ԃ | 𝓬 α ɬ𝓿áϻ𝐨𝓷σรOh V, you need me. Someone free- to cut you deep. My mother always told me not to play with my food. She wanted it to be fresh, savory, curbing our appetites.
Hiring some low level club owner in Soho to get info & addresses, I knew he would try to fuck me out of my food, but also that he'd let it sit.
Not to give the information to me, but to try to profit from both parties. Two things you can count on with scum are being selfish and tardy.
His mother never taught him that lesson. Neither did your birthing whore.
But you'd know more, Wouldn't you V? Mothers, Sisters, Whores?
ANSWER ME!
That's what I thought, just another worthless mouth piece. Stuck forever between four and six, Never enough to matter, But just enough to be a dick.
Living as a conundrum in your own head, While the rest of us hear you go on and on wishing we were dead.
I love people who talk about change but aren't willing to pay their fucking dues. Mine are written all over my face. Where are yours written? Your sacrifices? Because to beat me you have to be willing to die. To give it all up for a single victory.
Look me eye to eye where only truth lies. Where want disappears and ability decides.
Everyone thinks they know how to feed me my medicine until we get in the ring, Then, suddenly they forget, outmatched by a supreme foe, "uhh, what was that dose?" They get Rated R- unresponsive, hearing me whisper "vámonos."
This isn't some delusion or dream state. Calling me a monster isn't breaking news. Rather, more than assumed. I'm more than you can ever consume. I'm fucking better than you.
Feel that in your gut? Yeah, I bet you do.
You say you've become intimate with pain, With hurting; that's what makes your name? What about fear? Because when I look at you, It's crystal clear.
Pretending to save a piece of yourself, A mirage of protecting Nikki, Sin, or yourself. I've seen stronger will's in Christmas Elves. Ten seconds away from being put on the shelf. You're not a gift to anyone.
You're a curse.
A nuisance.
Just a single letter, Defining a single soul. And this time with no control.
I don't give a shit who you are. Who you've beaten, who you admire or protect. To me you're just another rung of Sanatorium's defects.
I can't tell you it's going to be okay. I wouldn't want to lead you so far astray. God may decide who gets cut down, Or maybe it's all a universe oblivious to who wears the crown. But even God can't fix the emptiness you wear around here like a shroud. Incredible how you can be both pathetic and desperately loud, When on the inside you're still a little boy lost in the crowd.
On the other hand, my shroud is bloodlust. That's what separates numbers from animals, They can bust. I don't need hope or trust.
It's instinctual. Provocation doesn't matter in a hunt. It's about survival. Me or you. Starving or thriving. Conscience is a human creation. I am more than that, Or maybe less. But regardless, completely ruthless.
What's done in the dark no one talks about. It's my natural habitat. I live in it. I breath it in. Never satisfied with enough, never wanting to give it up. Useless until it soaks into my skin making the light finally shut.
There isn't much light left to shine, V. From now on it's a simple urge, like your simple pleas. But I can't stop even if you beg me. Flesh is what feeds my altered breed. Blood bathes my face with glee. My eyes need to see...
So I need you to bleed. Like a fulfilling V shaped cavity. Your heart in my teeth.
It's not you, it's me.
Sooner or later you will let your guard down. You'll think for a split second you have an advantage, At that moment, that feeling in your gut will tell you, That this you can't pretend out of to manage.
Then you'll get a taste of my tranquilizer. The great debilitating R-shaped V equalizer.
(Word Count 709)
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Former Champion
USER IS OFFLINE
Years Old
Male
Warning: Passive Aggressive
6 POSTS & 1 LIKE
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Post by V on Sept 25, 2020 23:00:44 GMT -5
well now. isn't somebody clever.
not that I made it that difficult. I'm getting soft in my old age, it seems; letting a place be associated with me and not posted twenty-four hour security. but then, I take you for the kind of man who'd have just ridden himself of such lower level threats as security guards, right? the sort of man who'd back up from someone's pooling blood inching too close, as Palahniuk was wont to say.
don't get me wrong, Reno Outsider, don't mistake me for someone with refined taste just because I quote authors-- not that Palahniuk is Hemingway. when it comes to me, they might as well be interchangeable, frankly. you see, I know taste when I see it. much like not previously hiding what you've reduced to cinders, I just can't be bothered with the pretensions of censoring myself down to a narrower set of references for the sake of projecting a certain image anymore.
but there's the thing, isn't it...
you've burned something that was mine to the ground. I don't have very many things, I don't keep very many things, so its absence is duly noted. and the consequence of its destruction will extend far larger than a wrestling match on a weekly B-show.
though it's funny. humor me for just a moment.
because if you'd gone just a few blocks over... you could've burned down what would be adorably referred to as my "childhood home" instead.
wouldn't that have been a kicker? I ask myself, would it be a bigger sting? that fetid rathole, imprinted with so many memories of childhood loneliness, adolescent grief, the first time I ever tapped a vein...
would that be more personal? or is it more personal that you destroyed a historical building that I personally renovated by hand into what I wanted it to be? created out of my own head, invited a select few to.
I know every floorboard of both. I have paced each countlessly. and now I wear new patterns in different floors because of you.
here's the thing, Reno. you say you want me to bleed. but do you understand what you're asking for?
because as I've already hinted at, there seems to be a difference between us. for all you may be a vile, mutilated thing now-- a monster, your words not mine-- deep down...
well... deep down, you still harbor the ability to feel revulsion.
you call me a curse, a nuisance, and you just might be closer than you counted on being.
I'm toxic, Reno.
that blood you claim to want, to need?
I've felt it since I was a child... like someone took used motor oil and old coffee grinds and blood and rat poison and piss and spun it all together. it's in me. and over the years it's eaten through hope, through happy, through faith. it's eaten through the place where that gleam lives, that little gleam like when your mother hugged you. maybe that was the chink in my armor, where it came in-- I never had the one thing everyone should have, even if it's a terrible version.
I KNOW what I am. and it doesn't matter anymore whose fault it is.
get out of that Soho gutter. you're blocking my skylight.
“If you’re paying, I’ll drive.”
Jada Kaine, mother of Josh Kaine and long time friend of the man known as V, stood up from the settee where she'd been waiting. A day of fittings for a wedding could rouse up an appetite. She stretched out her frame before she pulled her keys from her pocket. She led the way out the haberdashery to the tiny adjacent parking lot. There sat the ruby-red Saturn Sky that technically belonged to her bride-to-be. Her braintwin, as she referred to V, knew her daily driver was the big Dodge Ram, but— “The truck’s too big for city driving, the roadster’s just the right size. You might have to fold yourself up a bit.”
She slid into the driver’s seat, not entirely accustomed to sitting so low, but Jada at least waited until he was seated and buckled in to take off like a bat out of hell. The Sky handled like a dream.
A few miles up the road, she pulled into a parking lot that was home to a barbecue joint—complete with a massive smoker outside along with a dozen or more picnic tables. “C’mon, they’ve got killer brisket here and pandemic-friendly seating.”
They were seated in short order and she sat across from him, both hands clutched around a Coke as they waited for their orders to be dropped off. “Tell me something, Tarzan. You’re now the top contender for our Amazon’s belt, which if I remember correctly—is the crazy-house equivalent of the world title. She’s not going back there, is she? Hard enough to have you in that place, Darlin’, and I thought she had been permanently moved to the Dystopia roster.”
Luckily the drive hadn't been far, so he hadn't been folded up for long. He'd put off thinking about the ride back to the hotel as long as he could at this point. "She's moved to Dystopia, but she wouldn't just relinquish the title, so she has to come back to defend it because it belongs to that brand. Which is exactly why I'm taking it from her. Cut ties. Move on with her career. Maybe make it a little easier to leave me behind if she hates me, 'cause yeah, just gonna be fighting in this shit pit till I die at this rate. So yes, it's by design."
“Fuck.”
This was history repeating itself all over again for her. Jada reached over, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it hard. She knew this man and his sister enough to know that it wouldn’t be so simple to leave him behind even if Nikki hated his guts. It was similar enough to what Jada had done to Josh--forcefully cut those apron strings and all but handed him over to the megastable known as HATE in the EWA. Josh found out about what she’d done, but it had been the easiest way to really show him what the business was like...and keep him safe from her monster.
Jada loved Nikki like she was her own. She saw too much of her younger self in the Amazon and the bond she’d developed over the course of a decade plus with the man across the table was...well, the only way to describe him accurately was all of the titles she could think of and none of them all at once. There was no putting a name on something like that.
She knew how much it would hurt the both of them, but it was the right choice. He knew that. Jada knew that. Nikki would suffer, but she would be stronger for it.
“It’s hard to keep the kids from clinging to sinking ships,” she began, squeezing his hand again. “I had to do it to Josh--makes sense you’d have to do it to Nikki. After the shitshow with Josh and Moe...and my monster. Nikki’s gonna need someone on the outside, Tarzan. Someone she can trust that isn’t another sinking ship.”
Jada let out a long-suffering sigh, taking a sip of her drink before continuing.
“The noise inside her head gets to be too much and she’s going to find something dangerous to help her not feel the rising tide. She’s a little too much like you in that aspect, but she’s not gonna have you or me to come runnin’ to after you do that and the dog, much as I love her, doesn’t exactly help solve problems beyond keeping creepers at bay. Is she close with anyone else?” There was Wrestling Mom--wanting to keep one of her kids safe before they were even hurt.
"You mean other than the cult she joined soon as she got to Dystopia? I wouldn't know. You'd have a better chance of getting that out of her than I would." What had started as commiseration had soured with guilt at what he was doing. He was quickly losing his appetite.
“Well, she’s gotta come have her fitting anyway.” Their food arrived then and she let go of his hand, but moved to switch sides. Jada slid next to him on the bench, pulling her brisket over with a another sigh. She leaned against him gently, just to give him some sense of stability—reassurance or something resembling hope. “You know she’s not just going to drop a world title belt. Not like I can quit bein’ Wrestling Mom. I’ll do what I can on the outside so you can do what is necessary inside, Tarzan. If possible, I’ll see if I can push Josh into her line of sight. He’s lookin’ for something from her anyway. Better my dumbass kid than the fuckin’ cult that reminds me way too much of shit from the last company.”
Despite what she said about the kids clinging to sinking ships, if Jada could help, she was going to. “I won’t tell her it’s coming, she’s gonna need that pain to cut ties.”
"At least somebody gets it," he said, sighing too and relaxing just an iota at the contact. Who knew he'd end up someone that was comforted by proximity of at least someone he was close to... well, proximity other than primal fucking. "I mean, I know I've never been a joiner, and I'm likely to look harshly at certain types of people, but 'Havoc' really just tries too fuckin' hard. Another one of those that reminds me of some little kid parodying his parents. 'Bwahahaha, clean your room, I am a dark god!' et cetera, et cetera." He'd ordered a grilled steak, and at least cutting into it and the juices that seeped out ignited something in his stomach again. Had to eat the meat first, he couldn't stand it when it went cold.
She snort-laughed at his imitation, almost choking on what she’d put in her mouth. Jada coughed for a few moments, finally clearing her throat and washed it down with a long pull from her glass of soda. “C’mon, Tarzan—choking on food counts as major physical stress. I don’t wanna keel over before my wedding.”
There was a moment of silence before she piped up again. “Nikki’s not dumb—can’t always see the forest for the trees at first, but she’s actually got brains and uses ‘em. She got moved to the Dystopia roster and didn’t have anyone, so she shacked up—figuratively speaking, I hope—with the strongest weirdo. It’s a thing she does, Tarzan. I mean, she was so quick to come and live at the house in Cambridge and call me of all people—Wrestling Mom. Me. The greatest fuckup she could find that had an equally weird fuckup for a son for her to get attached to. Normal people send her running for the hills, she doesn’t think they’re resilient enough to handle all of her. She’s intense and she knows it—she knows folks like us have seen some shit and can handle it should something go nuclear. That’s why she clings to you so hard, you understand her. I understand her. Havoc might be trying a little too hard, but she’s got one more ally in him than she had before and she can use him to push herself up. Might be why she and I bonded so quickly, I did the same shit latching myself to Ozzy back when. Never said it was the best tactic, but it’s a smart one.”
"Eeeh..." There was something of an okay, you might have some kind of point in the noise. "Out of me and her, you'd figure I'd be the one with the attachment disorder. Or maybe we both have them, just opposite ones. I just know when I tried something like that, some big group that wanted to change the company and dominate, I wound up somebody I didn't like." He scoffed, and it was a type of laugh, but not happy at all. "All this I'm doing and I still worry. And when you put it like that, wish I didn't have to push her away in the end."
Jada shook her head, leaning against him still. It wasn’t just for his comfort, the warmth of him was reassuring. It gave her some measure of solid ground under her feet when she’d felt shaky all day. Taking on his issues and helping to sort through them made it easier to push aside her own mess and just function. “You’re going to have to push her away to get her to come back.”
She exhaled and pushed the brisket around with her fork.
“Just...hear me out. I’m not saying it was the best idea I’ve ever had, but it worked. I was a fuckin’ idiot, but--” She paused, looking up at him. “We trained these kids, Tarzan, gave them a taste of something that’s addictive as fuck and they’re gonna constantly want more, but they don’t have the twenty years of experience to teach them how to navigate all the bullshit like we do. We hold some responsibility for how they end up and we’ve got to do everything in our power to protect them while we can. Even if it means doing something that’ll cause a rift. I pushed Josh out of the nest and he understands why I did what I did now...but you never did that with Nikki. For all she knows, she’s still got her big brother to come running to when she’s in trouble. She’s still clinging to you. Make her let go. If you’re lucky, she’ll realize down the line what you did is for the best.”
"Maybe you can explain that to her. Over my grave."
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