Apotheosis
Jan 24, 2013 20:40:18 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Jan 24, 2013 20:40:18 GMT -5
OOC: Sorry about the brevity/shittiness of this RP. I got stuck at work and actually PMed Terr saying I was gonna no show. I made it back to my hotel room in time to post SOMETHING. Unfortunately, it's not up to my usual standards and for that I apologize.
The the wind howls and bites into exposed flesh like a ravenous animal hungry for its next meal. The New England winter is mercilessly cold. Those who can take shelter where they can, ducking into alcoves, slipping into buildings, and pulling up any piece of fabric that can cover them.
Amidst the huddled, frigid masses waiting at a bus stop in Plymouth, Massachusetts is Malcolm Drake. Those around him tuck expensive scarves into expensive overcoats and slide expensive gloves into the pockets of expensive pants. But Drake sits in the corner of the bus stop, his arms wrapped around his knees and his face buried into his thighs with a woolen blanket draped over his body. The only visible part of him is his eyes, which cast darting, hateful glances at the commuters that load on and off the buses.
In a puff of steam from his mouth, Drake speaks.
"Apotheosis," he says, "is the idea that an individual can be raised to godlike stature. When Hercules completed his labors he became a demigod. An immortal mortal. A God among men."
Drake smirks that the moniker that once belonged to Alistair Mangold.
"There is another famous myth from antiquity. That of Icarus, who flew to close to the sun out of arrogance and hubris and DIED because of it. Apotheosis is the idea of a man becoming immortal... Do you know what they call it when a God becomes mortal? When a God is slain?"
Drake pauses for a long moment as if awaiting an answer.
"No. You don't. Because such a concept DOESN'T exist. Because no GOD has ever DIED. Until... until two weeks ago when I, Malcolm Drake, KILLED the God Among Men. I, alone, ended the career of Alistair Mangold. I did something so unprecedented there isn't even a WORD in our language to describe it. Hmmmm. Well that is just the first in a long line of unprecedented feats that I intend to accomplish. The next of which... is becoming the precious PURE wrestling champion of FGA. And I take my next step toward that goal as part of the double-shot weekend when I take on Tony Edison and Bob Pooler."
Drake shivers against the cold and temporarily covers himself up to shield himself from the wind.
"Do you know what I have to say to Edison and Pooler, hmmm? Nothing. NOTHING. Because there is nothing I NEED to say, and despite what pundits and critics might say about me I don't just talk, talk, TALK, talk, talk to hear the sound of my own voice. No. The Murder only makes noise when noise needs making. This week, in Plymouth, Massachusetts, I will do my speaking in the ring. I will EVISCERATE Tony Edison and Bob Pooler and move one step closer towards cementing myself as the very best in FGA. ME. Not Akrista O'Hare, not precious Pat Gordon, Jr. None of your false heroes... Me."
"Memento Mori."
The the wind howls and bites into exposed flesh like a ravenous animal hungry for its next meal. The New England winter is mercilessly cold. Those who can take shelter where they can, ducking into alcoves, slipping into buildings, and pulling up any piece of fabric that can cover them.
Amidst the huddled, frigid masses waiting at a bus stop in Plymouth, Massachusetts is Malcolm Drake. Those around him tuck expensive scarves into expensive overcoats and slide expensive gloves into the pockets of expensive pants. But Drake sits in the corner of the bus stop, his arms wrapped around his knees and his face buried into his thighs with a woolen blanket draped over his body. The only visible part of him is his eyes, which cast darting, hateful glances at the commuters that load on and off the buses.
In a puff of steam from his mouth, Drake speaks.
"Apotheosis," he says, "is the idea that an individual can be raised to godlike stature. When Hercules completed his labors he became a demigod. An immortal mortal. A God among men."
Drake smirks that the moniker that once belonged to Alistair Mangold.
"There is another famous myth from antiquity. That of Icarus, who flew to close to the sun out of arrogance and hubris and DIED because of it. Apotheosis is the idea of a man becoming immortal... Do you know what they call it when a God becomes mortal? When a God is slain?"
Drake pauses for a long moment as if awaiting an answer.
"No. You don't. Because such a concept DOESN'T exist. Because no GOD has ever DIED. Until... until two weeks ago when I, Malcolm Drake, KILLED the God Among Men. I, alone, ended the career of Alistair Mangold. I did something so unprecedented there isn't even a WORD in our language to describe it. Hmmmm. Well that is just the first in a long line of unprecedented feats that I intend to accomplish. The next of which... is becoming the precious PURE wrestling champion of FGA. And I take my next step toward that goal as part of the double-shot weekend when I take on Tony Edison and Bob Pooler."
Drake shivers against the cold and temporarily covers himself up to shield himself from the wind.
"Do you know what I have to say to Edison and Pooler, hmmm? Nothing. NOTHING. Because there is nothing I NEED to say, and despite what pundits and critics might say about me I don't just talk, talk, TALK, talk, talk to hear the sound of my own voice. No. The Murder only makes noise when noise needs making. This week, in Plymouth, Massachusetts, I will do my speaking in the ring. I will EVISCERATE Tony Edison and Bob Pooler and move one step closer towards cementing myself as the very best in FGA. ME. Not Akrista O'Hare, not precious Pat Gordon, Jr. None of your false heroes... Me."
"Memento Mori."