"Yeah, We Did That."
Feb 20, 2014 18:45:33 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Feb 20, 2014 18:45:33 GMT -5
Camden Town, England.
The Camden Town sits northwest of downtown London and is famous for its street markets. The sidewalks are packed with twenty-somethings in various shades of black and denim, browsing the wares of open air shops with the sort of ambling nonchalance that is the purview of youth. Camden looks every bit like a warbling Mick Jones guitar-lick sounds: crowded, graffiti-tagged, and laden with T-shirts beckoning you to “Go Fuck Yourself.”
Below the rising namesake of Dark Angel and the dancing dragon of Max Orient, a group of mohawked, leather-clad punks - with as many pins in their flesh as in their clothes - congregate to fill the air with smoke and curses. The group is abruptly split by the stiff gait of less-ostentatious figure in stressed leather and jeans. It's not often that the mangy locks and dingy attire of Malcolm Drake doesn't make him stick out like a sore thumb. Drake, oblivious to the obscene gestures aimed at his back, shoulders through the crowd until he can find a side alley to duck inside.
With his back against a brick wall and a slow trickle of rain water running underneath his boots, Drake pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pockets of his jacket and sparks one. He puffs out a long, steady cloud of smoke.
“This is about as close as I get to a vacation,” he says through the smoke, “It's not very often I find a place where I can fade into the scenery. Of course, it's one thing to live this way and another to buy for a couple of quid at the market. But that's neither here nor there. HERE... is London. And as far as I'm concerned, it not quite far enough from THERE as I'd like, but it'll have to do.”
Drake's movements are herky-jerky as he takes long, hard pulls from the cigarette.
“I'm not too familiar with the concept of vacations. From what I gather, you're supposed to get away from your troubles for a little while and do what you enjoy. Well, right now there's a big fucking ocean between me and my biggest problem so I guess that puts me halfway on the right track. But... what does Malcolm Drake like to do... for fun? Hmmm. Did that thought make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up? It should. You see what I enjoy most of all... is hurting people. I like the feeling of bones and flesh giving way underneath the force of my fists and feet. I love the sound of body parts separating in unnatural ways. I LIVE for the warm trickle of blood between fingers and the fear in someone else's eyes.”
Drake grins, wide and beaming, before slipping the cigarette back between his lips, more at ease.
“But you know that already don't you, boys? You learned first hand that The Murder do what we love, and love what we do. And the body-count indicates that we're pretty damn good at it, too. So where does that leave the two of you? Where does that leave the Super Mario Wrestling Bros? Two kids in funny outfits with way more balls than brains and a death-wish. Or is that too dismissive? Is there more to you than that? More than a cute name and some battery-powered ring jackets?”
Drake shrugs and takes another drag, smoking the butt down to the filter but not discarding it.
“Maybe. Maybe there is more to the Super Mario Wrestling Bros than meets the eye... pity that no one will ever see it. This Saturday night – International Incident – it will be your magnum opus... and your swan song. You'll walk into the ring with the greatest tag team on the face of the Earth, possibly ever, and for a little while you will fight us. You will give it your absolute very best. You'll cash in all your coins, use every last second of your star power, you'll burn your fire-flowers down to the stem, and you'll spend every extra life you've got...”
“But here's the thing... it won't be enough. THIS... is NOT a game. We're not some final boss for you to vanquish. We are not some initials at the top of a High Score list that you can stop. You can't keep pumping in quarters for extra chances until you can outlast us. The thing about your games is that they follow certain rules. And as you so observantly pointed out... we don't follow any rules except our own. We aren't the game, we are the personification of the “GAME OVER” screen.”
Drake finally tosses the remnants of his cigarette into the puddle at his feet.
“You will walk into the ring against the Murder on Saturday night at the Royal Albert Hall... but you won't walk out. I hope Battleground really drove the message home for the two of you. I hope you realize just EXACTLY who and what you're stepping into the ring against on Saturday night. I hope you can comprehend the magnitude of this shot you're getting. The Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championships are THE belts in this sport, and they have been ever since they were first placed around our waists. I won't say you haven't earned, I'll simply point out that the rest of the division... the fact that there IS none... yeah, we did that.”
“Dragons, Kings, Suspects, the Church... what a pair of Brothers to add to the list? Just two more bodies for the mass grave that they call our Win Column. I hope that is all getting through, I hope this is sinking in. I hope you're finally realizing the hopelessness of your situation. I hope... and not because I give a SHIT about either of you... I don't care if you survive this match, I don't care if I cripple one of you and maim the other, I don't care if you never walk or wrestle again.”
Drake smirks.
“I hope... because I like it when my victims struggle.”
“Memento mori.”
The Camden Town sits northwest of downtown London and is famous for its street markets. The sidewalks are packed with twenty-somethings in various shades of black and denim, browsing the wares of open air shops with the sort of ambling nonchalance that is the purview of youth. Camden looks every bit like a warbling Mick Jones guitar-lick sounds: crowded, graffiti-tagged, and laden with T-shirts beckoning you to “Go Fuck Yourself.”
Below the rising namesake of Dark Angel and the dancing dragon of Max Orient, a group of mohawked, leather-clad punks - with as many pins in their flesh as in their clothes - congregate to fill the air with smoke and curses. The group is abruptly split by the stiff gait of less-ostentatious figure in stressed leather and jeans. It's not often that the mangy locks and dingy attire of Malcolm Drake doesn't make him stick out like a sore thumb. Drake, oblivious to the obscene gestures aimed at his back, shoulders through the crowd until he can find a side alley to duck inside.
With his back against a brick wall and a slow trickle of rain water running underneath his boots, Drake pulls a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pockets of his jacket and sparks one. He puffs out a long, steady cloud of smoke.
“This is about as close as I get to a vacation,” he says through the smoke, “It's not very often I find a place where I can fade into the scenery. Of course, it's one thing to live this way and another to buy for a couple of quid at the market. But that's neither here nor there. HERE... is London. And as far as I'm concerned, it not quite far enough from THERE as I'd like, but it'll have to do.”
Drake's movements are herky-jerky as he takes long, hard pulls from the cigarette.
“I'm not too familiar with the concept of vacations. From what I gather, you're supposed to get away from your troubles for a little while and do what you enjoy. Well, right now there's a big fucking ocean between me and my biggest problem so I guess that puts me halfway on the right track. But... what does Malcolm Drake like to do... for fun? Hmmm. Did that thought make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up? It should. You see what I enjoy most of all... is hurting people. I like the feeling of bones and flesh giving way underneath the force of my fists and feet. I love the sound of body parts separating in unnatural ways. I LIVE for the warm trickle of blood between fingers and the fear in someone else's eyes.”
Drake grins, wide and beaming, before slipping the cigarette back between his lips, more at ease.
“But you know that already don't you, boys? You learned first hand that The Murder do what we love, and love what we do. And the body-count indicates that we're pretty damn good at it, too. So where does that leave the two of you? Where does that leave the Super Mario Wrestling Bros? Two kids in funny outfits with way more balls than brains and a death-wish. Or is that too dismissive? Is there more to you than that? More than a cute name and some battery-powered ring jackets?”
Drake shrugs and takes another drag, smoking the butt down to the filter but not discarding it.
“Maybe. Maybe there is more to the Super Mario Wrestling Bros than meets the eye... pity that no one will ever see it. This Saturday night – International Incident – it will be your magnum opus... and your swan song. You'll walk into the ring with the greatest tag team on the face of the Earth, possibly ever, and for a little while you will fight us. You will give it your absolute very best. You'll cash in all your coins, use every last second of your star power, you'll burn your fire-flowers down to the stem, and you'll spend every extra life you've got...”
“But here's the thing... it won't be enough. THIS... is NOT a game. We're not some final boss for you to vanquish. We are not some initials at the top of a High Score list that you can stop. You can't keep pumping in quarters for extra chances until you can outlast us. The thing about your games is that they follow certain rules. And as you so observantly pointed out... we don't follow any rules except our own. We aren't the game, we are the personification of the “GAME OVER” screen.”
Drake finally tosses the remnants of his cigarette into the puddle at his feet.
“You will walk into the ring against the Murder on Saturday night at the Royal Albert Hall... but you won't walk out. I hope Battleground really drove the message home for the two of you. I hope you realize just EXACTLY who and what you're stepping into the ring against on Saturday night. I hope you can comprehend the magnitude of this shot you're getting. The Mid-Atlantic Tag Team Championships are THE belts in this sport, and they have been ever since they were first placed around our waists. I won't say you haven't earned, I'll simply point out that the rest of the division... the fact that there IS none... yeah, we did that.”
“Dragons, Kings, Suspects, the Church... what a pair of Brothers to add to the list? Just two more bodies for the mass grave that they call our Win Column. I hope that is all getting through, I hope this is sinking in. I hope you're finally realizing the hopelessness of your situation. I hope... and not because I give a SHIT about either of you... I don't care if you survive this match, I don't care if I cripple one of you and maim the other, I don't care if you never walk or wrestle again.”
Drake smirks.
“I hope... because I like it when my victims struggle.”
“Memento mori.”