Window Dressing a Massacre
Dec 23, 2012 12:18:43 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Dec 23, 2012 12:18:43 GMT -5
A very light snow has begun to fall over Sussex Park in the center of the city of Newark, New Jersey. A thin layer of snow coats the grass between Central Ave and Martin Luther King Blvd. Traffic, both pedestrian and automotive, is at a seasonal peak as people rush about their lives; wrapping up their Christmas shopping and scurrying about as the street lamps and lights begin to come alive. Amidst the shoppers laden down with bags, shuffling along the pavement, a homeless man sits hunched forward on the park bench with a heavy woolen blanket draped over his head and shoulders. He's been there long enough for a white film of snow to have accumulated on top of him.
As the cameraman makes his way past the homeless man a familiar voice rings out over the din of traffic.
“What's YOUR rush, hmmm?”
The camera wheels back around to center on the homeless man, who shrugs some of the snow off his shoulders before pulling the blanket back off his head. The man shakes his matted hair out, and when it settles over his face the man becomes recognizable as Malcolm Drake. Drake cocks his head to the side as he stares back at the camera.
“You,” Drake begins speaking again, “are emblematic of the problem. The myriad dysfunctions of society. Rushing one way then the other without any idea where you're headed. Endlessly chasing trinkets and meaningless baubles. Lemmings. Marching, marching, marching off the cliffs of obscurity and impotence.”
Drake makes a dismissive wave of his hand before continuing.
“I... am burdened with HORRIBLE purpose. And while it leaves me... grotesque to the marching lemmings who avert their gaze and shut their ears to me, like YOU.” Drake spits, “I am left with the knowledge of TRUE burden and TRUE pain.”
“You see while they masquerade as something they are not; while they hunch and struggle and wheeze under the weight of their imagined burdens; I make no such pretenses about who and what I am. I do not hide behind pink hair and pretenses. I am not here because daddy didn't like the music I listened to. Daddy...”
Drake's voice strains and then trails off. His gaze falls back to the ground as snowflakes gently trickle down in a white-wash around him. Slowly he raises his head back up.
“I don't look at my reflection in the mirror and sneer at people who don't accept my appearance. I don't primp for the unwashed masses because what I AM and what I DO is so much more than the superficiality of little girls. And while you may say that my words are only wind, know that soon... soon a Murder will descend on Frontier Grappling Arts and professional wrestling as you know it will have the meat stripped from its carcass.”
Drake shifts in his seat before discarding the tattered blanket that had enveloped him. A small plume of snow floats up around him as he stands and shrugs off the covering.
“And the... execution of that plan continues on December 28, 2012 at the Fleisher Athletic Center in the steaming cesspool of avarice and ignorance that is Newark, New Jersey. In what is billed as an eight-person tag team match, but the truth is THAT is simply window-dressing on an impending massacre. On one side of the ring you have two of the most dangerous men that have ever set foot in FGA in Christopher Q and Malcolm Drake. Two men that are, respectively, the living embodiments of chaos and carnage. Personifications of destruction. Akrista O'Hare tossed around terms like 'ultra-violent.' 'lunatics,' and 'psychopaths'... as if they were meant as insults.”
“Delicate little flower, are you scared? Does it bother you that my garden is sown in misery and watered from a river of blood? That cold feeling that... tingles... up and down your spine, have you convinced yourself that it's only that I give you the creeps? Or deep down in that pit of your stomach do you know the truth? Do you know that it is fear that grips you. That you know that I am coming to hurt you. And not brash-professional-wrestler-talk hurt you... but to really, REALLY hurt... you. You. Akrista O'Hare. Do you feel that? That sssensation when I say your name. How does it feel, Akrista?”
Drake's hands, clad in fingerless gloves, start roaming over his own torso and abdomen as he caresses himself slowly and methodically.
“How does it FEEL?! Do you feel helpless again, little girl? Are you and Alyssa having flashbacks yet? All those deep, dark secrets that you try to bury under a mountain of eye liner and hair dye... are they poking out? All the memories that you try to suffocate under the stupid adulation of imbecilic fans, are they... rising... to the surface?”
“Do you see me in your nightmares? Do you see me in the eyes of the crows that constantly follow you? Do you hear MY VOICE in their incessant CAWING, AND CAWING AND CAWING?! Hehehe. You do. I know you do. I know you do because FRAUDS always recognize the real thing. Those that manufacture PAIN and persecution in their minds always know when they genuine article speaks to them. I... am your unavoidable, unenviable reality.”
Drake presses his face as close to the camera as he can manage, blocking out everything but his face and the dangling strands of matted, filthy hair.
“You already know that I am the capital-T Truth. And you fear me because you know what that truth means. It means that I don't COWER away from what I am like a COWARD. It means that I ENJOY fighting women. I don't pretend that this is some unfortunate part of my job that I must do because I am being coerced by the mean old powers-that-be...”
“I like beating up women. I like hurting them. I like how soft their skin feels... when I pound it with my fists. I like the little yelping noises they make when I pull their hair. I like it when... they're pretty and they have so much to lose. I like the way their eyes bulge with that look of betrayal and helplessness when I strangle their beautiful, slender necks... And I love it when they scream. And you, Akrista, and you, Alyssa... you look like SCREAMERS.”
Drake blows a kiss into the camera before finally retreating back from it a few paces.
“And that's really what this match boils down to, isn't it? Half of our team is made of monsters and half of their team is made up of Life-size Punk Rock Barbies. I'm sure that offends the Jakes. Jake Demore, if he even shows his face, will be hobbling around on one leg. He looks like a man who got put in the electric chair and somehow survived the first jolt. I guess I WAS rusty. I didn't finish off Jake Demore in one shot. But... Jake... do you know what they do to men that survive the first jolt in the chair?”
A smirk cuts across the face of Malcolm Drake.
“They re-dampen his head to make sure that lovely, conductive water is dripping over him. Which probably isn't necessary because that man has been sweating profusely and his bowels... have probably released. And then, right before they flip the switch a second time, they put a strip of duct tape over his eyes. So that when he gets FRIED a second time, when his eyes BURST...”
Drake pantomimes the motion of his eyes violently exploding from his head.
“...he doesn't get his sticky, gooey eye-bits all over the executioner. But with us, Jake, I don't have the TIME to waste on duct tape and I don't MIND getting a little dirty. So I hope the Final Frontier audience isn't too squeamish, because what I am going to do to you – in the politest terms – is end... you.”
Drake draws a slow slash across his throat with his thumb, applying enough pressure to produce a red scrape mark where his thumb pressed. He stares into the camera before his face twitches in an over-exaggerated display of an epiphany.
“Oh... I almost forgot. Jake Winchester. A man whose age almost puts him closer to death than me. But I know Death intimately. She and I go waaay back, Jack. Winnie likes to say he's 'Old School.' Apparently that school never taught the rules of blackjack, but... apparently they had extensive training on lecturing. Every week I see Grandpa Winnie wheel his addled carcass out to lecture some young whippersnapper on this or that or 'the old school' or the right way to do business or some other nonsense. Hey, old man... who did you ever beat? Who are you? You hide your mirror behind a shiny facade of meaningless titles so you don't have to see the HORROR of your true reflection. You prefer the distorted look from a useless trinket than the hard truth that you're just a washed-up, old, sack of concussed delusions.”
“Don't believe me? Do you want to cross your arms and put on your mean face and your authoritative voice and lecture me on 'respect?”
Drake mockingly crosses his arms in front of his chest, shrugging away his neck as he glares at the camera before letting the imitation end.
“Well if you don't believe me, look around you. Look at your team. You've got a crippled dead-man-walking; two 'female wrestlers' who are more worried about their feminist ideals than about surviving; and you. You're on top of the scrap pile, old man. You're King Sh*t of F*ck Mountain. You're... nothing. I'm pretty sure that Tony Edison will be able to make short work of you. In fact... I'm excited for Tony. He gets to team with Chris Q and Malcolm Drake. After what he witnesses us do firsthand, after he gets a first-rate schooling in process of pain... he can drop his gimmicky 'Man Who Gravity Forgot' moniker and start going by 'Terrible' Tony Edison. You see there's a monster in each of us, and Tony's is clawing at the surface. Let. It. Out, Tony. Realize your true potential. Forget the top rope and focus on shattering the pathetic, brittle bones of Old Man Winchester. Revel in ending an old man's career. Savor the feeling of putting an old dog... down.”
Drake pantomimes a gun with his right hand and points to the “barrel” at his own temple.
“And maybe we'll see Diego Alvarez and maybe we won't. I don't care. Unlike Team Sunshine, I have no interest in pretending to be team captain, barking orders and demanding unity. There is one universal truth... entropy. All systems in nature are breaking down. It is only a matter of time. We... are agents of chaos. Soldiers of entropy. This match will break down. A slaughter will commence. And it will leave a FEAST for a legion... of horrible crows.”
“Memento mori.”
With those final words, Drake slings back onto his seat on the bench, slipping back under his snow-covered blanket and disappears back amongst the scenery.
As the cameraman makes his way past the homeless man a familiar voice rings out over the din of traffic.
“What's YOUR rush, hmmm?”
The camera wheels back around to center on the homeless man, who shrugs some of the snow off his shoulders before pulling the blanket back off his head. The man shakes his matted hair out, and when it settles over his face the man becomes recognizable as Malcolm Drake. Drake cocks his head to the side as he stares back at the camera.
“You,” Drake begins speaking again, “are emblematic of the problem. The myriad dysfunctions of society. Rushing one way then the other without any idea where you're headed. Endlessly chasing trinkets and meaningless baubles. Lemmings. Marching, marching, marching off the cliffs of obscurity and impotence.”
Drake makes a dismissive wave of his hand before continuing.
“I... am burdened with HORRIBLE purpose. And while it leaves me... grotesque to the marching lemmings who avert their gaze and shut their ears to me, like YOU.” Drake spits, “I am left with the knowledge of TRUE burden and TRUE pain.”
“You see while they masquerade as something they are not; while they hunch and struggle and wheeze under the weight of their imagined burdens; I make no such pretenses about who and what I am. I do not hide behind pink hair and pretenses. I am not here because daddy didn't like the music I listened to. Daddy...”
Drake's voice strains and then trails off. His gaze falls back to the ground as snowflakes gently trickle down in a white-wash around him. Slowly he raises his head back up.
“I don't look at my reflection in the mirror and sneer at people who don't accept my appearance. I don't primp for the unwashed masses because what I AM and what I DO is so much more than the superficiality of little girls. And while you may say that my words are only wind, know that soon... soon a Murder will descend on Frontier Grappling Arts and professional wrestling as you know it will have the meat stripped from its carcass.”
Drake shifts in his seat before discarding the tattered blanket that had enveloped him. A small plume of snow floats up around him as he stands and shrugs off the covering.
“And the... execution of that plan continues on December 28, 2012 at the Fleisher Athletic Center in the steaming cesspool of avarice and ignorance that is Newark, New Jersey. In what is billed as an eight-person tag team match, but the truth is THAT is simply window-dressing on an impending massacre. On one side of the ring you have two of the most dangerous men that have ever set foot in FGA in Christopher Q and Malcolm Drake. Two men that are, respectively, the living embodiments of chaos and carnage. Personifications of destruction. Akrista O'Hare tossed around terms like 'ultra-violent.' 'lunatics,' and 'psychopaths'... as if they were meant as insults.”
“Delicate little flower, are you scared? Does it bother you that my garden is sown in misery and watered from a river of blood? That cold feeling that... tingles... up and down your spine, have you convinced yourself that it's only that I give you the creeps? Or deep down in that pit of your stomach do you know the truth? Do you know that it is fear that grips you. That you know that I am coming to hurt you. And not brash-professional-wrestler-talk hurt you... but to really, REALLY hurt... you. You. Akrista O'Hare. Do you feel that? That sssensation when I say your name. How does it feel, Akrista?”
Drake's hands, clad in fingerless gloves, start roaming over his own torso and abdomen as he caresses himself slowly and methodically.
“How does it FEEL?! Do you feel helpless again, little girl? Are you and Alyssa having flashbacks yet? All those deep, dark secrets that you try to bury under a mountain of eye liner and hair dye... are they poking out? All the memories that you try to suffocate under the stupid adulation of imbecilic fans, are they... rising... to the surface?”
“Do you see me in your nightmares? Do you see me in the eyes of the crows that constantly follow you? Do you hear MY VOICE in their incessant CAWING, AND CAWING AND CAWING?! Hehehe. You do. I know you do. I know you do because FRAUDS always recognize the real thing. Those that manufacture PAIN and persecution in their minds always know when they genuine article speaks to them. I... am your unavoidable, unenviable reality.”
Drake presses his face as close to the camera as he can manage, blocking out everything but his face and the dangling strands of matted, filthy hair.
“You already know that I am the capital-T Truth. And you fear me because you know what that truth means. It means that I don't COWER away from what I am like a COWARD. It means that I ENJOY fighting women. I don't pretend that this is some unfortunate part of my job that I must do because I am being coerced by the mean old powers-that-be...”
“I like beating up women. I like hurting them. I like how soft their skin feels... when I pound it with my fists. I like the little yelping noises they make when I pull their hair. I like it when... they're pretty and they have so much to lose. I like the way their eyes bulge with that look of betrayal and helplessness when I strangle their beautiful, slender necks... And I love it when they scream. And you, Akrista, and you, Alyssa... you look like SCREAMERS.”
Drake blows a kiss into the camera before finally retreating back from it a few paces.
“And that's really what this match boils down to, isn't it? Half of our team is made of monsters and half of their team is made up of Life-size Punk Rock Barbies. I'm sure that offends the Jakes. Jake Demore, if he even shows his face, will be hobbling around on one leg. He looks like a man who got put in the electric chair and somehow survived the first jolt. I guess I WAS rusty. I didn't finish off Jake Demore in one shot. But... Jake... do you know what they do to men that survive the first jolt in the chair?”
A smirk cuts across the face of Malcolm Drake.
“They re-dampen his head to make sure that lovely, conductive water is dripping over him. Which probably isn't necessary because that man has been sweating profusely and his bowels... have probably released. And then, right before they flip the switch a second time, they put a strip of duct tape over his eyes. So that when he gets FRIED a second time, when his eyes BURST...”
Drake pantomimes the motion of his eyes violently exploding from his head.
“...he doesn't get his sticky, gooey eye-bits all over the executioner. But with us, Jake, I don't have the TIME to waste on duct tape and I don't MIND getting a little dirty. So I hope the Final Frontier audience isn't too squeamish, because what I am going to do to you – in the politest terms – is end... you.”
Drake draws a slow slash across his throat with his thumb, applying enough pressure to produce a red scrape mark where his thumb pressed. He stares into the camera before his face twitches in an over-exaggerated display of an epiphany.
“Oh... I almost forgot. Jake Winchester. A man whose age almost puts him closer to death than me. But I know Death intimately. She and I go waaay back, Jack. Winnie likes to say he's 'Old School.' Apparently that school never taught the rules of blackjack, but... apparently they had extensive training on lecturing. Every week I see Grandpa Winnie wheel his addled carcass out to lecture some young whippersnapper on this or that or 'the old school' or the right way to do business or some other nonsense. Hey, old man... who did you ever beat? Who are you? You hide your mirror behind a shiny facade of meaningless titles so you don't have to see the HORROR of your true reflection. You prefer the distorted look from a useless trinket than the hard truth that you're just a washed-up, old, sack of concussed delusions.”
“Don't believe me? Do you want to cross your arms and put on your mean face and your authoritative voice and lecture me on 'respect?”
Drake mockingly crosses his arms in front of his chest, shrugging away his neck as he glares at the camera before letting the imitation end.
“Well if you don't believe me, look around you. Look at your team. You've got a crippled dead-man-walking; two 'female wrestlers' who are more worried about their feminist ideals than about surviving; and you. You're on top of the scrap pile, old man. You're King Sh*t of F*ck Mountain. You're... nothing. I'm pretty sure that Tony Edison will be able to make short work of you. In fact... I'm excited for Tony. He gets to team with Chris Q and Malcolm Drake. After what he witnesses us do firsthand, after he gets a first-rate schooling in process of pain... he can drop his gimmicky 'Man Who Gravity Forgot' moniker and start going by 'Terrible' Tony Edison. You see there's a monster in each of us, and Tony's is clawing at the surface. Let. It. Out, Tony. Realize your true potential. Forget the top rope and focus on shattering the pathetic, brittle bones of Old Man Winchester. Revel in ending an old man's career. Savor the feeling of putting an old dog... down.”
Drake pantomimes a gun with his right hand and points to the “barrel” at his own temple.
“And maybe we'll see Diego Alvarez and maybe we won't. I don't care. Unlike Team Sunshine, I have no interest in pretending to be team captain, barking orders and demanding unity. There is one universal truth... entropy. All systems in nature are breaking down. It is only a matter of time. We... are agents of chaos. Soldiers of entropy. This match will break down. A slaughter will commence. And it will leave a FEAST for a legion... of horrible crows.”
“Memento mori.”
With those final words, Drake slings back onto his seat on the bench, slipping back under his snow-covered blanket and disappears back amongst the scenery.