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Post by the Hive on Jan 30, 2021 13:49:51 GMT -5
Match Six: Gabe Reno versus Mike Lavicle The second of the two singles matches for this team. Gabe Reno has been putting his name out there as potential Tag Champ material as part of the Iconoclast, but he's also got long standing beef with the Asylum Champion V and Legion. Will this match go off without a hitch, or will there be shenanigans from the outside? Can Mike Lavicle as the more serious of the tag champs pull out a win over the impressive Iconoclast member that's rumored to be seen as a potential Asylum contender down the line? Roleplay Deadlines: Friday, February 5th, 2021 at 9 PM PST, 12 AM EST, 11 PM CT(US) Saturday, February 6th, 2021 at 5 AM(UK)
Roleplay Limit 2 RPs, up to 1000 words apiece OR A single RP, up to 2000 words
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Post by Deleted on Feb 2, 2021 6:35:58 GMT -5
Ⓢⓟⓞⓞⓚⓔⓓ A Radical Production
I hate creeps. Lingering in your driveway late at night looking for a window to peak through. Rubbing their junk against the corner of a car headlight. Gyrating to an imaginary creepy tone in their own head. Picking their boogers, examining them, eating them to make sure they still taste as rotten as they feel. It usually doesn't end there. See, creep is a way of life. It's who they are. Stalking because they are powerless to actually act. A coward left in the back seat while all the cool kids play in the front. Wishing someone felt sorry for them, and when no one does, following people down the street to get some demented form of attention. Peering and staring like a fucking sad pathetic shadow. Half of what everyone else can be because they actually put forth the effort to try instead of pretending to be a martyr. Sexual deviants, social outcasts, even less than nothing because that's what their actions say, not their lack of words. It's not good enough. You're not good enough. Some of us don't need to be felt behind you to be valued. It's not spooky, it's spooked.
Luckily for me, I like finding those who hide in the dark. It's my natural habitat to seek and destroy. That's why I was the perfect Outsider. Because I know how to dig my way in. But not because I follow from just out of sight, because I froth at the opportunity to put those who try to be special in their place. Those who hide, those who play on fear, those who are truly acting from their own insecure fears. I soak it in like nicotine after sex. It calms my nerves with the poison of your spooky soul entering my lungs, then be exhaled as quickly. Just enough to get a little rush, but not enough to get whatever fucking disease you clearly carry. Sanatorium is my realm, the darkness doesn't scare me in the dingiest parts of its abscesses. They are my playground. Unlike creeps who jangle their own jingles anywhere it's dim. At least use lotion you boney bitch. Hiding Skeleton porn in your little creepy clipping book isn't sexy, you pervert.
That's what I think of when I hear the name Mike Lavicle. Just another kooky freaky jeepers creeper. About to be blown up by the heat finding missile bitch seeker. What part of this don't you understand, Mike? I beat your ass, your partner's ass, and your Manager's ass last Sanatorium after you three try to keep me out of the match... how'd that work out? And if it wasn't for a bunch of other assholes getting in my way, drugging my Chaotic partner, you wouldn't have a Tag Team Championship in WWH, either. Iconoclast isn't made up of a couple boney half woke bitches. Our plates are dynamically full. And you're about to learn the difference between a playful empty unfulfilling appetizer and cooking up something decadently satisfying for an entire Asylum to eat up.
You're a Kook. And I'm gonna take your Spooky book and beat you to death with it.
Ooopps.
The pink Killjoy suspected van from last week drives out of the WWH parking lot after an event late at night somewhere local. In the distance behind, headlights illuminate, a sleek dark sedan pulls out of a spot between two large equipment trucks, as if waiting for that van to depart. Fast forwarding to minutes later, the Van stops at a light, as the creepy eyes adjust the review mirror, peering back at the sparse midnight traffic behind with curious observation. A green light leads to a left turn. In the distance the sedan reappears, cruising to the same light, and bursting through it just as the yellow turns to red. The eyes again reflect back through the mirror, not realizing the same sedan is still tracing the exact same route direction. Coincidence? They think not. Fast, a screeching turn to the right through an alleyway, then left behind a parking garage, up a hill, around a public park, and onto the freeway entrance. The van pulls off at the next exit, parking in a small lot next to an Auto Parts store. The driver exits, too dark to make out from a distance, they walk to the back of the van, opening the doors, then pulling out a baseball bat. They open the passenger door, slinking behind it, eyes on the exit, ready to confront a stalker of the night who may have bad intentions.
Crackling becomes more and more pronounced from the trash cans to the left of the Van, just beside the store. The driver wonders what it is... walking over to investigate, looking back with paranoia toward the exit, then the trash cans, then the exit. He opens the enclosure to the trash containers, a demonic symbol stares back at him where the recycle sign usually would be. Bright red and burning as if just lit for his own viewing purpose. The driver stumbles backward with a frightened groan. He falls onto his backside, as the bat deflects off the asphalt, rolling into the sidewalk crevice. The image gets brighter as demonic wind sweeps in with bright embers flicking through from the direction of the symbol. He backups up bear-crawling backward toward the van, totally transfixed on the symbol that seems to have taken power over him. Suddenly, his backward progress is stopped, but not by the van. Feeling for his door, finally realizing the object behind him is a foot, not a vehicle. His eyes widen with fear, looking up at the insatiable hungry stare of Gabe's outsider eyes burning back down looking through him. He whimpers, begging for some semblance of mercy. Reno grabs him; lifting him off the ground with satanic unhuman force, high into the air as piss runs down his pant leg.
"Where is he, Killjoy?! WHERE THE FUCK IS PEDRO THE PANDA!?"
(Words#1000)
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Post by skullandbones on Feb 4, 2021 12:15:49 GMT -5
Written by Mike Lavicle
There is darkness. Indiscriminate darkness. For the dark, it does not favor. It does not coincide. It does not compromise. It is bi-partisan in it’s pervasive existence over all things living, dead or otherwise. It merely exists. It permeates our universe. And you either embrace it...fear it...or share in it’s indifference of all things.
Just like this very moment. There is only darkness. No illumination to speak of. Your eyes attempt to adjust to their surroundings. You think you can make out various shades of black dancing and weaving within each other, trying to make out some form of shape or silhouette that can bring familiarity. Something to allow yourself to mask this overwhelming sense of terror that starts in the back of your throat and just seems to keep GROWING, choking you despite having no constraints against your throat. Creating thirst when you would normally be hydrated adequately. Producing sweat upon your brow despite the fact that your surroundings are a comfortable room temperature. You attempt to speak, but all that comes out is rattling, confused whimpers.
Those intertwining shades of black seem to respond to even your slightest wheezing sound as you attempt to catch your breath. They pulsate and wiggle within the subspace of reality and fiction. Perhaps it is your own mind merely breaking piece by piece, cortex to cerebellum. Imagination running wild. But you could swear that directly in front of you, merely inches away from your own face, the shadows form the shape...of a skull. Not quite a fully heh, fleshed out skull. But more like..a bone white face with skeletal features. Perhaps more shadows formulate a bit of a...a hood? Over this face? You must be losing it now...but this lipless, unmoving facial reconstruction within your own mind, it begins to speak. You would almost assume it is communicating psychically, but no. You can very clearly discern that the direction the voice is coming from is not within your head, but straight in front of you.
Mike Lavicle | Sage of the Diviners: Pardon dear...I only need you for a moment. You’ll be free to go in JUST...a moment. I needed a proxy, see...someone or something I could...emote to. To pretend that you are an opponent I must face in single combat very shortly...I thought it was...proper, to do it this way. Talking to a camera feels so, I don’t know...hollow? I want this Outsider to FEEL my words. Even if he has to live vicariously through your experience...This message is special. You’re actually lucky you get to be a part of it...don’t hate, appreciate. Hue hue hue hue.
The sickening cacophony of a chortle that emanates from this visage is followed by a rather violent cough...true sickness? Physicality and mentality conjoining into a greater whole? What does that even mean? Why is your mind wandering? It’s not that this ethereal voice isn’t captivating in it’s own creepy way. But something just feels...otherwordly about this experience. You feel the beads of sweat on your own skin, or perhaps they are drips of water from above? It’s hard to tell. Your senses are simultaneously unrestricted and yet you’ve never felt more confined in your life. Paralyzed with fear. The voice continues from the ghostly skeletal THING you’ve conjured before you.
Mike Lavicle | Sage of the Diviners: Gabe Reno...I have no hopes of defeating you...Is that strange to hear? Does that seem right to you? How your opponent could simply just GIVE UP before the fighting has even started? Queer, isn’t it? I’m just being honest with you, friend. The last time my brother Hugh Merus and I were split and put in these one on one situations...he fought and defeated our current reigning Demolition Champion, Chucky Ross. While I? I lost to a man named Jonathan Edwards who isn’t even amongst our ranks anymore. Look to Grindhouse, in the Haunted Escape Room Match. I was eliminated by my own partner, while he made it to the final three of that prestigious bout. Look back to Shogun. Our first encounter. Yes I scored a rollup pinfall on you, The Great Gabe Reno. But you immediately made me regret that didn’t you? I was...subsequently eliminated. Then again, my dear Brother Merus picked up the slack and won us those WWH World Tag Team Championships you seem to covet so much. My point being friend...it’s always been Hugh Merus who has excelled in singles situations. I am the tag specialist of the group. I am the glue that keeps our tandem together. What possible hope do I have against a man who’s raised the ire of the likes of the legendary Legion or our indomitable Asylum Champion, V?
Ok, you simply MUST be hallucinating now. As you actually look down upon your own forearms from which you feel those dollops of perspiration..and you begin to see little lime green strings of light emanating from your own veins. You can tell it’s from your vessels BECAUSE of the dim lime green lights within. Your skin stretches as if ingrown hairs are being pulled with each stringy light plucking itself from your essence. But it doesn’t burn. It doesn’t pinch. In some morbid sense of magical mischief...the lights tickle as they come loose. From there, they dance around the echoing monologue of the skeletal visage speaking before you, spelling out the words “Reno” then “Merus” then “Legion” then “V”. The faint dancing spectral lights give you a more complete picture of the speaking skeleton, who turns out to really just be the masked Mike Lavicle after all.
Mike Lavicle | Sage of the Diviners: You’re a world champion, Mister Reno. A world class athlete. A legend in his own right. You’ve achieved things in the world of wrestling I couldn’t dream of. As I mentioned before...I have no hopes of defeating you. To believe I could I think you would agree...would be lunacy. Lunacy? In a Sanatorium? Really now? Hehehehe....but Gabe. Another thing you and I must agree on...I simply have to try...right? You and your partner, the Iconoclast...you defeated us last week. You’ve all but cemented yourselves as the next in line to challenge for the tag titles, assuming the Soulless Sisters don’t wish to cash in any sort of rematch clause. These singles contests are just further showcases of the Iconoclasts capabilities in the ring, and puts one more chink in our skeletal armor to make us look like paper champions, or out of our league against you. Feeding into this narrative that we can’t win under any circumstances. Simply because we don’t take this as seriously as you do.
The creepy scrawling crawling lime green lights continue to dance around your peripheral vision. They act like some form of lyrical translation to base points provided within the diatribe. Spelling out further words like “Lunacy” then “Iconoclast” and finally “Seriously”.
Mike Lavicle | Sage of the Diviners: But you see Gabe...that’s where you’d be wrong. In at least one instance...you underestimate us. I don’t know what Dr. Killjoy’s game is that he’s trying to play getting into the good graces of my brother Merus and I. I don’t pretend to understand the relationship between your Panda and our Necrosis. But for all our tomfoolery and happy-go-lucky creepy cookiness, there is one thing we take very seriously. Dead serious. And that is our WWH Tag Team Championships. More important to us than any milestone in our afterlives. Winning those belts was the proudest and happiest either Hugh or I have ever been. And as fruitless as my attempts will be at trying to defeat you in a singularity...I will use every single bruise and broken bone you administer to my person and learn from it. I will absorb every strike and blow you can deposit into my frame...and I will study it. Remember it and learn it. Because between our showdown at Shogun, your non-title win last week, and our singles encounter at the Sanatorium the next...I’ve been learning everything about you. So that when it TRULY matters, and you come for our championships in earnest...I will know all of your tricks. All of what you are capable of. And I will use that knowledge to make sure you never take these titles from my brother and I. So enjoy your dominance while it lasts Reno. Let’s just hope you don’t stretch yourself too thin like the former double champion Havoc on that Dystopia Brand. He had his hands full too making a world of enemies. Perhaps when you do lose, you’ll re-evaluate what matters more to you...your partnership with Chris Chaos…or your greater aspirations against V and that Asylum Championship. Hmm?
And with that calming, soothing “Hmm?” the darkness finally FINALLY dissipates. Hanging fluorescent lights whirr and pop with the activation of their bulbs within. And you find yourself in a dull white room with no real dynamic features. You are sitting in a mundane metal chair whose seat is puddled with your own panicked sweat. Across from you is a similarly plain chair. But there is no Mike Lavicle. No floating green lights swirling about your field of vision. You are alone, with nothing standing in your way from the exit. But as you rise, your knees shaking and right foot stinging with a thousand tiny needles of sleep. You can’t help but catch something spelt out in a fading ghostly green light within your peripheral vision that you swear read something like “Thank you”. In some strange, comforting way, you feel delightfully spooked.
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