Beg Me
Oct 2, 2014 18:27:24 GMT -5
Post by Vinny on Oct 2, 2014 18:27:24 GMT -5
Berlin, Maryland
About five miles inland from Ocean City, is the small town of Berlin, Maryland. What was once a Circuit City has been swiftly rebranded with a black and orange banner that reads “Halloween Depot” in an appropriately spooky font. It's the kind of temporary store that pops up around different holidays to sell over-priced plastic to cheap people. Inside flimsy wire racks form aisles of made-in-China superhero costumes, slutty everything outfits, and cheap plastic props. There is also, naturally, an aisle devoted to masks. Freddy, Jason, Chucky, Michael and amidst them – Malcolm Drake.
Drake stands, attired in a black leather motorcycle jacket over a plain white T-shirt, dark blue jeans, and black combat boots. In his hands is a black and white Kabuki mask that he is turning back and forth, inspecting it.
“Maybe I'll dress up like a hero and fight off this new villain,” Drake muses to himself, “Isn't that what the “good guys” do?”
A smirk crosses his lips as he continues to fiddle with the mask.
“People always asked,” Drake begins, as if speaking to the mask, “why Malcolm Drake was the Head Crow of The Murder. Bob Pooler was more seasoned. Dom Harter was more talented... The answer is that I've always been a big picture guy, even when that picture was just a portrait of mayhem and destruction. I can see five moves ahead and I can manipulate the players and the pieces. My gift is just a propensity for violence, it's that I can see – truly see – human nature. No distractions, no disguises,” Drake looks down, “No masks... Dominic talked about MY mask, my... exterior casing. That quality that makes me... unfuckwithable. And there's the rub. Where I am a hardened case, Dominic Harter is a raw, exposed nerve. He is anger. He is aggression. He is a useful tool. Malleable, pliable. The perfect make-up for a lackey. A STOOGE. A flunky. Hmmm. That flush of rage you're feeling in your face now, Dom... that's me poking you. That's me poking the exposed nerve. Poke. Poke. POKE. Does it... tickle?”
“What Dom Harter knows... is that I am anything but ordinary. There are some who dismiss me out of hand. Drake's a psycho. Drake's... crazy. No, no, no. I am NOT one of these run-of-the-mill cut-outs that throws on a mask and all-of-sudden GOES CRAZY! No... What Dom Harter knows is that above all else, I'm in control. That's why I could do what I did and why it sent shivers down the spines of ALL the biggest and baddest in FGA. And it's... now... I will control myself. Wrestle my demons. Everyone doubts that I am capable of that control. Doubts that I am capable of using it to reform myself. To fix the parts of me that are broken, and believe me, I know that I am broken. But... but... it could always be said that only one person could truly know what Malcolm Drake is capable of... me. Even you, Dominic, even you...”
“But you're a problem for another time,” he waves the mask in the air dismissively.
“Danny,” Drake continues, “I had a lot of free time between my match and when Mr. Harter was trying to trying to keep my doctors and dentists in business. I heard your little promo on Saturday night. I heard you refer to yourself as a “God amongst men.” A God... Amongst men. I enjoyed that. That brought back some memories. See you're not the only one around here with a pseudonym. There was a man around here – not so long ago – who called himself a “God amongst men.” This “God” stepped into the ring with me... and I stepped out of that ring with the nickname “God Killer.”
“But you've changed your story since then, haven't you? And it's not Danny anymore, it's... Mirage. Adorable. And you've got a mask to go with your new name, and a history that's supposed to make me quiver in fear, right?”
“Dog killer,” Drake spits on the floor, “Here's a little know fact about me... I like dogs. In fact, on the list of things I like in this world, dogs are the only item that don't involve making someone BLEED. And you... you put on a little bag over your face and want to pretend to be the Big Bad around here now? Cute. Here's what I think: You want to let your alter-ego out? Maybe I should let the 'other guy' out, too. That old Malcolm Drake. The Malcolm Drake that would turn your little mask into a colostomy bag. The Malcolm Drake that would make your past transgressions look like kindergarten pranks. If it's blood you're after... Mirage... there will be plenty of it, but it won't be coming from me. It'll be coming from you. It'll be POURING out of the wounds I leave in your body. You say that Danny Diamond is a loser. Well then all Mirage is... is a loser in a mask.”
“You're not a different person with the mask on; you're selling multiple personality garbage, but I'm not buying. All you are is a garden variety psychopath. I should know, I'm... somewhat of an expert on the subject. But here's the kicker... you're also a COWARD. A coward, making excuses. A coward, hiding behind a mask. You wanna pretend to be someone else, some kind of tough guy? Okay, Sunshine. You do that. You play dress up and make believe and I'll go back to haunting the nightmares of every damn sonuvabitch in this promotion. You know, like someone who is actually capable of inspiring fear.”
“You're like these masks and costumes,” Drake makes a sweeping gesture, indicating his surroundings, “a cheap imitation. A knock-off. You're a bargain basement megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur. You're not the first version of 'Drake Lite' that's stepped into my path with their chest puffed out, babbling incoherent nonsense. But maybe after what I do to you on Saturday, you'll be the last... dog killer.”
Drake spikes the Kabuki mask off the ground and turns on his heel to walk away down the aisle. After a step or two, he stops. He leans back over his shoulder without turning.
“Oh, and one last thing. You don't need to beg me to hurt you, Danny... You'll need to beg me to stop.”
He turns away.
“Memento mori.”
About five miles inland from Ocean City, is the small town of Berlin, Maryland. What was once a Circuit City has been swiftly rebranded with a black and orange banner that reads “Halloween Depot” in an appropriately spooky font. It's the kind of temporary store that pops up around different holidays to sell over-priced plastic to cheap people. Inside flimsy wire racks form aisles of made-in-China superhero costumes, slutty everything outfits, and cheap plastic props. There is also, naturally, an aisle devoted to masks. Freddy, Jason, Chucky, Michael and amidst them – Malcolm Drake.
Drake stands, attired in a black leather motorcycle jacket over a plain white T-shirt, dark blue jeans, and black combat boots. In his hands is a black and white Kabuki mask that he is turning back and forth, inspecting it.
“Maybe I'll dress up like a hero and fight off this new villain,” Drake muses to himself, “Isn't that what the “good guys” do?”
A smirk crosses his lips as he continues to fiddle with the mask.
“People always asked,” Drake begins, as if speaking to the mask, “why Malcolm Drake was the Head Crow of The Murder. Bob Pooler was more seasoned. Dom Harter was more talented... The answer is that I've always been a big picture guy, even when that picture was just a portrait of mayhem and destruction. I can see five moves ahead and I can manipulate the players and the pieces. My gift is just a propensity for violence, it's that I can see – truly see – human nature. No distractions, no disguises,” Drake looks down, “No masks... Dominic talked about MY mask, my... exterior casing. That quality that makes me... unfuckwithable. And there's the rub. Where I am a hardened case, Dominic Harter is a raw, exposed nerve. He is anger. He is aggression. He is a useful tool. Malleable, pliable. The perfect make-up for a lackey. A STOOGE. A flunky. Hmmm. That flush of rage you're feeling in your face now, Dom... that's me poking you. That's me poking the exposed nerve. Poke. Poke. POKE. Does it... tickle?”
“What Dom Harter knows... is that I am anything but ordinary. There are some who dismiss me out of hand. Drake's a psycho. Drake's... crazy. No, no, no. I am NOT one of these run-of-the-mill cut-outs that throws on a mask and all-of-sudden GOES CRAZY! No... What Dom Harter knows is that above all else, I'm in control. That's why I could do what I did and why it sent shivers down the spines of ALL the biggest and baddest in FGA. And it's... now... I will control myself. Wrestle my demons. Everyone doubts that I am capable of that control. Doubts that I am capable of using it to reform myself. To fix the parts of me that are broken, and believe me, I know that I am broken. But... but... it could always be said that only one person could truly know what Malcolm Drake is capable of... me. Even you, Dominic, even you...”
“But you're a problem for another time,” he waves the mask in the air dismissively.
“Danny,” Drake continues, “I had a lot of free time between my match and when Mr. Harter was trying to trying to keep my doctors and dentists in business. I heard your little promo on Saturday night. I heard you refer to yourself as a “God amongst men.” A God... Amongst men. I enjoyed that. That brought back some memories. See you're not the only one around here with a pseudonym. There was a man around here – not so long ago – who called himself a “God amongst men.” This “God” stepped into the ring with me... and I stepped out of that ring with the nickname “God Killer.”
“But you've changed your story since then, haven't you? And it's not Danny anymore, it's... Mirage. Adorable. And you've got a mask to go with your new name, and a history that's supposed to make me quiver in fear, right?”
“Dog killer,” Drake spits on the floor, “Here's a little know fact about me... I like dogs. In fact, on the list of things I like in this world, dogs are the only item that don't involve making someone BLEED. And you... you put on a little bag over your face and want to pretend to be the Big Bad around here now? Cute. Here's what I think: You want to let your alter-ego out? Maybe I should let the 'other guy' out, too. That old Malcolm Drake. The Malcolm Drake that would turn your little mask into a colostomy bag. The Malcolm Drake that would make your past transgressions look like kindergarten pranks. If it's blood you're after... Mirage... there will be plenty of it, but it won't be coming from me. It'll be coming from you. It'll be POURING out of the wounds I leave in your body. You say that Danny Diamond is a loser. Well then all Mirage is... is a loser in a mask.”
“You're not a different person with the mask on; you're selling multiple personality garbage, but I'm not buying. All you are is a garden variety psychopath. I should know, I'm... somewhat of an expert on the subject. But here's the kicker... you're also a COWARD. A coward, making excuses. A coward, hiding behind a mask. You wanna pretend to be someone else, some kind of tough guy? Okay, Sunshine. You do that. You play dress up and make believe and I'll go back to haunting the nightmares of every damn sonuvabitch in this promotion. You know, like someone who is actually capable of inspiring fear.”
“You're like these masks and costumes,” Drake makes a sweeping gesture, indicating his surroundings, “a cheap imitation. A knock-off. You're a bargain basement megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur. You're not the first version of 'Drake Lite' that's stepped into my path with their chest puffed out, babbling incoherent nonsense. But maybe after what I do to you on Saturday, you'll be the last... dog killer.”
Drake spikes the Kabuki mask off the ground and turns on his heel to walk away down the aisle. After a step or two, he stops. He leans back over his shoulder without turning.
“Oh, and one last thing. You don't need to beg me to hurt you, Danny... You'll need to beg me to stop.”
He turns away.
“Memento mori.”