Death Rattle
Oct 24, 2013 19:31:12 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Oct 24, 2013 19:31:12 GMT -5
Dearborn, Michigan.
October 11, 2013.
It's one of those motel room where the carpet and the furniture don't match. A tacky burgundy rug accented with gold patterns opposes blue and green floral bedsheets and an brownish-yellow couch. The walls were white at one point and the faint smell of cigarette smoke still lingers in the air from long before the “No Smoking” sign was hung.
The large window looks out into a mostly deserted parking lot; the overhead lamps of the lot cast light through the curtains and into the room, but mercifully only enough that the room is still awash in shadows and shades of black and blue. Half-silhouetted against window, a man sits in the room's only chair. His chest and legs are bare, save for his protruding curled hairs. His lap is covered by the shadows and strands of his hair hang in chaotic and disheveled fashion over his brow. His eyes are fixated across the room, but outside the frame of the window. His right hand is empty. His left holds a six-inch fixed blade hunting knife.
Malcolm Drake lifts his hands from his lap and balances the knife by tip and hilt between his palms, slowly rotating it back and forth, watching the light catch the blade and dance along the ceiling. His gaze returns to its previous target.
YOU were supposed to FIX this, he mutters in an accusatory tone. You were supposed to fix EVERYTHING. You were supposed to make me happy, to make me... normal... to make... people like me.
His voice drops to barely above a whisper.
Respect me..., his voice trailing off but his gaze remaining firm. Drake grasps the knife by hilt and points it accusingly.
But you were just an empty promise. Another let down. Another disappointment. Another FAILURE. Well I'm not like that. I am not a failure. I am not. I am not. I am NOT.... I will show YOU and I will show them... and I'll show... him.
Drake shoots to his feet, and grasps frantically, his right hand catching a firm grip. As light catches his face there are tears coursing down his cheeks, but his lips are twisted into a smirk.
This will hurt me more than it hurts you.
Drake flips the blade and drags a long hard carve. It is only after his handiwork is done that he pulls the FGA Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship belt into the light, with a fresh, deep gash cut diagonally across the faceplate. Drake, still holding the knife, fastens the belt loosely around his waist.
When the bathroom door opens and floods the room with light, Drake is standing there amidst the gaudy furniture, brandishing the knife, with only the championship belt to cover his nakedness. Standing in the door frame of the bathroom is a lithe blonde girl, still dripping with water and clutching a towel across her chest. Her blue doe-like eyes stare unblinkingly and her mouth sits agape. She slowly closes the door without daring to turn away; praying that when the light is gone so is he. But the door closes and Drake is still standing there.
Drop the towel. His voice is low. Authoritative. Harsh. She hesitates.
NOW.
She stumbles back into the door a bit at the barked command, swallows hard and releases her grip on the towel, letting is drop to the tacky burgundy carpet. Drake approaches her slowly, his frame blocking her bare body from view. She sets her jaw, but the rest of her body trembles. Eyes darting between the man and the blade. He moves closer and she can feel his breath.
Turn around. The low authoritative voice returns.
She complies, her hands pressed against the bathroom door, bracing. Drake takes the blade and drags its cold, flat surface along her arm, to her shoulder and down her back. He unstraps the belt from around his waist and lets it fall beside the towel on the tacky burgundy carpet.
It's one of those motels where the faucets drips. The furniture is stiff and uncomfortable. The bed creaks. You don't sleep well.
It's one of those motels you never visit again.
----------
Toronto, Ontario. Canada.
Present.
The Main and Gerrard Health Clinic is next to the Church of the Universe and across the street from the Ted Reeve Arena in the East York section of Toronto, Ontario. Malcolm Drake leans against one of red brick pillars in front of the ambulance drive-up entrance to the Emergency Room, smoking a cigarette. His brown leather motorcycle-style jacket is distressed at elbows and shoulders, a few of the straps are missing buttons and the cuffs hang a bit too long over the bottoms of his hands. Under the jacket he wears a plain white T-shirt; dark blue jeans; his trusty black combat boots; and, across his waist, the Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship belt.
I said I'd leave a SCAR across the face of this industry, he says with a self-bemused smirk across his face. Drake pats the belt and then draws his finger along the scar in the belt. THIS is a good start.
Drake takes a final drag from the cigarette before crushing the embers out on the “No Smoking” sign above his head.
You know I had to get a passport for this, he says as he pushes himself away from the pillar. Hmm? He shrugs. Worth it. You know WHY? Because while I don't have a lot of money it is worth every damn PENNY to get a chance to hurt Jason Marx and Christopher Tryon. This, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a fresh, blue United States passport, was the last hope that the Usual Suspects had of leaving Canada under their own power.
Drake flicks the passport with his finger before returning it to his pocket.
You know it's too bad, though. I'll probably never get it use it again. Because after these mouth-breathers witness what Robert and I are going to do to YOU at Respect is Earned, they're going to tear up my passport into a million tiny pieces, BURN those pieces, and BURY the ashes in Lake Ontario. It's fitting isn't it, he says as he extends his arms out before letting them fall to their sides, that Saturday night's venue is right across the street from a health clinic. Maybe after FGA realized they were sending Mr. Marx and Mr. Tryon to the SLAUGHTER... they felt a twinge of guilt and remorse and made sure there was a least a slim chance... at resuscitation.
Drake lowers head, allowing his tangled hair to fall over his face. He stares out through the strands, smirking.
I, however, am not burdened with such feelings. There will be no GUILT... when I SHATTER Mr. Marx's brittle, old bones. There will be no REMORSE... when I CHOKE the life out of Mr. Tryon and watch his eyes go dark. But most importantly... most importantly of all is there will be no... disqualifications.
Drake laughs. It is a horrible, guttural sound that comes out in fits and spurts like a cackle. As he stops, he reaches down and caresses the championship belt around his waist.
And this is what it's all about it, isn't it? This was the carrot they dangled in front of you two troglodytes. And like the FOOLS that you are you followed right into the very deepest, darkest depths of hell on Earth. All those pesky rules that FGA is so INSISTENT upon... they're gone now. You have nothing to hide behind and nothing to save you. Can you even fathom that? Have the pathetic synapses in your puny brains even fired so that you can comprehend it? You talk about Patrick Gordon Jr. and Ryan Kidd... and how we “chased” them out of FGA. We didn't chase them. They ran. They ran screaming like cowards as fast as far away from The Murder as they could get... and we never got them in a no disqualifications match. Think about Jacob Demure, Alistair Mangold and Akrista O'Hare. What we did to them we did with all the rules in place. We CRIPPLED them... when playing by the rules.
Drake's face twists into a scowl and he spits before continuing.
You say that you aren't going to run away from us, hmmm? If I were you I wouldn't worry about running. I'd worry about whether or not you'll ever fucking WALK again. I'd worry about my fingers laced around your windpipe and the whole world going dark around you and having NO ONE there to stop it. I'd worry about Robert kicking you in the mouth so many times that they have to surgically remove your jaw. I'd worry about every... little... thing that is going on inside the minds of Malcolm Drake and Bob Pooler. Because there is literally NOTHING we cannot do to you.
Drake can barely contain his excitement, and begins pulling at his hair in hard tugs to settle himself down.
But you can stand there, puff out your chests and beat them with your fists and mumble out useless platitudes like 'that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger.' Isn't that your whole story, Mr. Tryon? You mewling, pathetic worm. The fact that you still slither around this promotion DISGUSTS me. Dominic should have done what your mother was too stupid not to do and ABORTED you... but he left enough meat on your bones for Robert and myself. It's a shame he didn't leave you with any dignity. Or with any BALLS. You're a shadow of your former self, which – let's be honest here – was far from impressive. But now it appears that Mr. Marx has traded an albatross... for a eunuch. Now uou're just another pair of warmed-over, milquetoast do-gooders.
Drake straightens himself and adjusts the championship belt around his waist.
Make no mistake about it, Mr. Marx and Mr. Tryon... this is your last dismal, pathetic gasp. Your death rattle. "The Usual Suspects aren't dead yet."
Drake smirks.
No... not yet.
Memento mori.
October 11, 2013.
It's one of those motel room where the carpet and the furniture don't match. A tacky burgundy rug accented with gold patterns opposes blue and green floral bedsheets and an brownish-yellow couch. The walls were white at one point and the faint smell of cigarette smoke still lingers in the air from long before the “No Smoking” sign was hung.
The large window looks out into a mostly deserted parking lot; the overhead lamps of the lot cast light through the curtains and into the room, but mercifully only enough that the room is still awash in shadows and shades of black and blue. Half-silhouetted against window, a man sits in the room's only chair. His chest and legs are bare, save for his protruding curled hairs. His lap is covered by the shadows and strands of his hair hang in chaotic and disheveled fashion over his brow. His eyes are fixated across the room, but outside the frame of the window. His right hand is empty. His left holds a six-inch fixed blade hunting knife.
Malcolm Drake lifts his hands from his lap and balances the knife by tip and hilt between his palms, slowly rotating it back and forth, watching the light catch the blade and dance along the ceiling. His gaze returns to its previous target.
YOU were supposed to FIX this, he mutters in an accusatory tone. You were supposed to fix EVERYTHING. You were supposed to make me happy, to make me... normal... to make... people like me.
His voice drops to barely above a whisper.
Respect me..., his voice trailing off but his gaze remaining firm. Drake grasps the knife by hilt and points it accusingly.
But you were just an empty promise. Another let down. Another disappointment. Another FAILURE. Well I'm not like that. I am not a failure. I am not. I am not. I am NOT.... I will show YOU and I will show them... and I'll show... him.
Drake shoots to his feet, and grasps frantically, his right hand catching a firm grip. As light catches his face there are tears coursing down his cheeks, but his lips are twisted into a smirk.
This will hurt me more than it hurts you.
Drake flips the blade and drags a long hard carve. It is only after his handiwork is done that he pulls the FGA Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship belt into the light, with a fresh, deep gash cut diagonally across the faceplate. Drake, still holding the knife, fastens the belt loosely around his waist.
When the bathroom door opens and floods the room with light, Drake is standing there amidst the gaudy furniture, brandishing the knife, with only the championship belt to cover his nakedness. Standing in the door frame of the bathroom is a lithe blonde girl, still dripping with water and clutching a towel across her chest. Her blue doe-like eyes stare unblinkingly and her mouth sits agape. She slowly closes the door without daring to turn away; praying that when the light is gone so is he. But the door closes and Drake is still standing there.
Drop the towel. His voice is low. Authoritative. Harsh. She hesitates.
NOW.
She stumbles back into the door a bit at the barked command, swallows hard and releases her grip on the towel, letting is drop to the tacky burgundy carpet. Drake approaches her slowly, his frame blocking her bare body from view. She sets her jaw, but the rest of her body trembles. Eyes darting between the man and the blade. He moves closer and she can feel his breath.
Turn around. The low authoritative voice returns.
She complies, her hands pressed against the bathroom door, bracing. Drake takes the blade and drags its cold, flat surface along her arm, to her shoulder and down her back. He unstraps the belt from around his waist and lets it fall beside the towel on the tacky burgundy carpet.
It's one of those motels where the faucets drips. The furniture is stiff and uncomfortable. The bed creaks. You don't sleep well.
It's one of those motels you never visit again.
----------
Toronto, Ontario. Canada.
Present.
The Main and Gerrard Health Clinic is next to the Church of the Universe and across the street from the Ted Reeve Arena in the East York section of Toronto, Ontario. Malcolm Drake leans against one of red brick pillars in front of the ambulance drive-up entrance to the Emergency Room, smoking a cigarette. His brown leather motorcycle-style jacket is distressed at elbows and shoulders, a few of the straps are missing buttons and the cuffs hang a bit too long over the bottoms of his hands. Under the jacket he wears a plain white T-shirt; dark blue jeans; his trusty black combat boots; and, across his waist, the Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championship belt.
I said I'd leave a SCAR across the face of this industry, he says with a self-bemused smirk across his face. Drake pats the belt and then draws his finger along the scar in the belt. THIS is a good start.
Drake takes a final drag from the cigarette before crushing the embers out on the “No Smoking” sign above his head.
You know I had to get a passport for this, he says as he pushes himself away from the pillar. Hmm? He shrugs. Worth it. You know WHY? Because while I don't have a lot of money it is worth every damn PENNY to get a chance to hurt Jason Marx and Christopher Tryon. This, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a fresh, blue United States passport, was the last hope that the Usual Suspects had of leaving Canada under their own power.
Drake flicks the passport with his finger before returning it to his pocket.
You know it's too bad, though. I'll probably never get it use it again. Because after these mouth-breathers witness what Robert and I are going to do to YOU at Respect is Earned, they're going to tear up my passport into a million tiny pieces, BURN those pieces, and BURY the ashes in Lake Ontario. It's fitting isn't it, he says as he extends his arms out before letting them fall to their sides, that Saturday night's venue is right across the street from a health clinic. Maybe after FGA realized they were sending Mr. Marx and Mr. Tryon to the SLAUGHTER... they felt a twinge of guilt and remorse and made sure there was a least a slim chance... at resuscitation.
Drake lowers head, allowing his tangled hair to fall over his face. He stares out through the strands, smirking.
I, however, am not burdened with such feelings. There will be no GUILT... when I SHATTER Mr. Marx's brittle, old bones. There will be no REMORSE... when I CHOKE the life out of Mr. Tryon and watch his eyes go dark. But most importantly... most importantly of all is there will be no... disqualifications.
Drake laughs. It is a horrible, guttural sound that comes out in fits and spurts like a cackle. As he stops, he reaches down and caresses the championship belt around his waist.
And this is what it's all about it, isn't it? This was the carrot they dangled in front of you two troglodytes. And like the FOOLS that you are you followed right into the very deepest, darkest depths of hell on Earth. All those pesky rules that FGA is so INSISTENT upon... they're gone now. You have nothing to hide behind and nothing to save you. Can you even fathom that? Have the pathetic synapses in your puny brains even fired so that you can comprehend it? You talk about Patrick Gordon Jr. and Ryan Kidd... and how we “chased” them out of FGA. We didn't chase them. They ran. They ran screaming like cowards as fast as far away from The Murder as they could get... and we never got them in a no disqualifications match. Think about Jacob Demure, Alistair Mangold and Akrista O'Hare. What we did to them we did with all the rules in place. We CRIPPLED them... when playing by the rules.
Drake's face twists into a scowl and he spits before continuing.
You say that you aren't going to run away from us, hmmm? If I were you I wouldn't worry about running. I'd worry about whether or not you'll ever fucking WALK again. I'd worry about my fingers laced around your windpipe and the whole world going dark around you and having NO ONE there to stop it. I'd worry about Robert kicking you in the mouth so many times that they have to surgically remove your jaw. I'd worry about every... little... thing that is going on inside the minds of Malcolm Drake and Bob Pooler. Because there is literally NOTHING we cannot do to you.
Drake can barely contain his excitement, and begins pulling at his hair in hard tugs to settle himself down.
But you can stand there, puff out your chests and beat them with your fists and mumble out useless platitudes like 'that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger.' Isn't that your whole story, Mr. Tryon? You mewling, pathetic worm. The fact that you still slither around this promotion DISGUSTS me. Dominic should have done what your mother was too stupid not to do and ABORTED you... but he left enough meat on your bones for Robert and myself. It's a shame he didn't leave you with any dignity. Or with any BALLS. You're a shadow of your former self, which – let's be honest here – was far from impressive. But now it appears that Mr. Marx has traded an albatross... for a eunuch. Now uou're just another pair of warmed-over, milquetoast do-gooders.
Drake straightens himself and adjusts the championship belt around his waist.
Make no mistake about it, Mr. Marx and Mr. Tryon... this is your last dismal, pathetic gasp. Your death rattle. "The Usual Suspects aren't dead yet."
Drake smirks.
No... not yet.
Memento mori.